Star Wars Division: Episode 1
by Raw Sewage Writings
Summary: For the years of 58 BBY to 44 BBY, Mandalorian Space was torn by a relentless and bloody civil war. Conquest, genocide and domination, versus justice, heart and honor. The galaxy's most fierce race of warriors will never be the same again... (DISCONTINUED)
1. PART 1: Chapter 1

PART 1

The hot sun of Concordia beat down on the biker, urging him to lift his bottle back to his reptilian mouth. Laying back against the saddle of his Swoop bike with his stalky legs propped up on the handle bars, the Trandoshan snarled as he tossed the bottle into the air, drawing his blaster pistol and firing off three wild shots. Each lazyily fired bolt missed its mark. With a guttural sigh, he collapsed back against his bike and laid their drunk and limp.

Drink no longer interested him and he'd eaten his fill of fresh, raw meat. This town quickly bored him. To his left, other members of the gang, all varying from Twi'leks, Devaronians, Weequays and Duros sat around a table in the shade of the porch playing Paza'ak. An old woman sluggishly brought drinks to the bikers, a look of despair creased her face, knowing the drinks would never be paid for. But off to his right a scream could be heard, a woman. There was laughter too, Yuriim's laughter. The boss was having fun with the locals. This town was his now, along with everyone and thing in it. The Trandoshan licked his razor sharp teeth. He wasn't hungry but that hadn't stopped him before from having a little fun of his own.

As the biker lowered a clawed leg from the handle bars, the sounds of engines quickly approaching reached his ears. Squinting his slit, yellow eyes, he spotted a cloud of dust vastly growing as it got closer and closer. The biker suddenly jumped from his swoop and dove out of the way of the accelerating swoop. It passed by him, narrowly crashing into his own swoop and instead crashing into the wall of the building behind him. The explosion shook all of the bikers from their stupor of relaxation.

The Trandoshan eased to his feet, dizzy with drink and shock. He hissed as he moved to the wreckage with swaying steps. The Devaronian and Weequay both approached as well.

"What happened?" The Devaronian asked with wide eyes. The Weequay knelt down to inspect a body lying mere feet from the wreckage. He grasped the body's thin, wiry braid and pulled the head from the hard, dusty ground. It was another Weequay with leathery, cracked skin and a smoking black hole in its forehead. The biker was dead even before the crash.

The Weequay dropped his dead gang member in a panic and fumbled for his blaster worn on his hip. With a yelp, he was suddenly shot down by a single blast. Everyone was on alert now. Each gang member was on their feet and retrieving their blasters with their anxiety mounting by each second. With wide eyes, they searched left and right for any sign of the attack. Suddenly the roar of rockets pierced the sky. A hail of blaster fire dropped like rain on the harsh ground. Dancing to avoid the lethal bolts of red and green, the bikers scrambled for cover. The Twi'lek kicked over the table, scattering Paza'ak cards in the dust.

Hovering in the orange, noon sky were three gleaming figures. The bikers squinted and looked away from the figures. All at once, the three figures dropped to the ground, flames flaring from the boosters of their jetpacks as they reached the hard surface. Kneeling in the street were three armored figures, each strongly built and armed for a small war. Each wore a full helmet on their heads, donning a fierce black 'T' on the face, Mandalorians. The swoop gang knew them all too well, more than that, they knew they didn't stand a chance.

The first figure standing to the left sported green painted plates adorned over tan fatigues. Hefted in his hands was a heavy repeater blaster rifle, laying down a stream of blaster bolts. The Mandalorian to his right was the largest of the three, a broad brute of a man who didn't fear to show it. His blue fatigues were cut off at the shoulders. His bare biceps flexed as he leveled his own snub rifle. The Mandalorian to the far right leveled his own rifle and fired mercilessly, killing three bikers within a single second. His silver and yellow armor was the most weathered and worn of the three.

From the roof of another building, another armored man dropped hard, flaring his jetpack too soon, but he was unfazed. His dark grey and maroon armor was clad over drab fatigues. Hanging from around his neck, a tattered red cape flowed with his every move. One hand was held out for his comrades to see and in his other, was a carbine. The blaster fire ceased instantly, none of the bikers had let off a single shot as they cowered behind cover.

"Afternoon, boys," the Mandalorian in grey armor said with a strong accent. "Where's your boss?" Eyes peeked over their cover, wondering if this cease of fire was real and not merely a figment of their imagination. None dared answer. Suddenly a voice called out from the window of a three story building to the left of the road. The voice spoke in Leku, the language of the Twi'leks. Hanging half out of the open window, half naked, was Yuriim, their target. From behind his helmet, the Mandalorian grinned, easy credits.

"What is this? Shoot! Shoot you sons of banthas!" Yuriim shouted in Basic. As if suddenly switched on, the gang popped from their cover and let off wild shots of their blasters. But the Mandalorians stood their ground. Suddenly, more blaster fire fell on the bikers. From the roof tops, five more, darkly clad armor figures unleashed a hail of sniper fire. The bikers ducked again, remembering they were cowards. The lead Mandalorian raised his hand again.

"Hold," he commanded. Still the blaster fire fell. "Hold!" he barked again, looking up at the roof tops to the Mandalorians posed and ready. The blaster fire ceased once again. Eyes wide with fear, Yuriim's lip quivered as he started to back away. The silence was violated by another roar of rockets as another Mandalorian suddenly appeared, hovering in front of the open window.

"There you are," a harsh voice said from behind the terrifying, black helmet. With a large hand, he grabbed Yuriim by the throat and wrenched him out the window. Descending rapidly, the fearsome figure only held the Twi'lek for one story before tossing him to the hard ground. Yuriim sputtered and coughed as he tried to rise to his knees.

"H-how dare you!" Yuriim coughed. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Doesn't matter, Gornuda Korrem wants you dead," the lead Mandalorian said. "But its your lucky day, I don't kill unarmed targets," he added. "So get the hell out of here and don't come back. Otherwise, Korrem will hire someone that doesn't give a damn." The Twi'lek looked up at the Mandalorian with a face swept with surprise. Yuriim then smiled and laughed with relief.

"Y-y-you got it!" he exclaimed.

"And that goes for the rest of you as well," the Mandalorian shouted to the remaining bikers. Yuriim suddenly dove to the ground to grab a blaster pistol from his dead Trandoshan biker.

"Jaster!" shouted the large Mandalorian as he leveled his snub rifle again. The Mandalorian in black was faster on the draw. Snapping his own pistol from his hip holster, he fired a single precise bolt. Still bent over, Yuriim fell dead on the ground. Gasps escaped the mouths of the bikers, then silence. Jaster looked from Yuriim's dead, crumpled form to the poised and anxious bikers.

"Get out now, we won't ask again!" The black armored Mandalorian slowly drifted the aim of his pistol to the bikers, daring them to make a false move. Quickly they scrambled and fumbled as they jumped onto their parked swoop bikes, the party was over. One by one, they engaged their engines and sped out of the town as fast of they could with the fear of death hot on their trails of dust. Moments later, the large cloud of dust settled and all was quiet. Jaster Mereel looked again at Yuriim's dead body. This was the job he actually accepted but he still would have preferred that Yuriim, in the state he was in, would have lived. Had Yuriim fought back with a blaster in his hands and got caught in the cross fire, Jaster wouldn't have cared then, that was just the nature of a fire fight.

"By the way, Mereel," The Mandalorian in black said as he holstered his pistol. "You're welcome. Now we can get paid in full."

"You'll get your cut, Viszla," Jaster said as he turned away to join the other three.

"And I'm going to be there when I do," Viszla said harshly. Jaster paused and looked over his shoulder.

"As you wish." From behind the cover of his helmet, Tor Viszla glowered at the Mand'alor, this little arrangement wasn't pleasant for either of them. Jaster continued past his own men then reached into a pouch on his belt for a holo transmitter.

The five other darkly clad Mandalorians joined Viszla, none of them slinging their blaster rifles and neither did Jaster's three. Pert Jerok, one of the five clad in black armor inched closer to Viszla.

"Got some news, Meltch and Ludo have called in."

"Where?" Tor demanded impatiently.

"Zanbar," Pert answered. "They have the package," he added with a sneer.

"Tell them to prep it, I'll be there shortly," Tor said. It seemed that he wouldn't be present at the payoff after all. What awaited him back at base was far more vital than a mere 25,000 credits.


	2. Chapter 2

The luxury speeder shined with flares of Concordia's sun even from a distance. The cloud of dust approached quickly down the sand blown roads of the town. With a magnified view in his HUD, Jaster watched it come closer. He mused with a grin the thought of the owner having to wax and buff that speeder at least three times a day to keep a shine like that.

This was the best part of the job and arguably the most dangerous. Jaster took almost every necessary precaution for an efficient payoff. Behind him landed on the roof of a single story building was their Meteor-Class Q-Carrier. At the controls was Jaster's right hand man, Montross. He was a young soldier but undoubtedly, he was his most loyal. Providing over watch security was Lynn Kreol, watching at the ready with a DMR. Other than himself and one of his most trusted comrades, two Mandalorians of Clan Viszla remained for the payoff, neither of them was Tor.

"What happed to Tor? I thought he wanted to be present for this," Jaster asked. Pert Jerok turned and looked at him from across the ten foot gap at which they stood from each other.

"Something came up, he's left me in his place." They too were prepared. Parked merely yards away was their open-cabbed landspeeder, ready for a quick get-away. The distant speeder's engine soon grew louder than the hum of the Q-Carrier behind them as it pulled into the square. The craft's windows were tinted, closing off the reality of the outside world from the lap of luxury inside.

"Already I don't like this guy," Hos muttered. The first doors opened and three Weequays filed out. Each wore a slim uniform and a blaster pistol on their hips, bringing a smirk to the Mand'alor's face beneath his helmet. Weequays were stereotypically cheap muscle for crime lords. Seeing them in such distinguished dress was not a typical sight, even for well-traveled soldiers like Hos and Jaster.

The guards backed away from the door and made room for two skinny, yet strong and fleshy expenditures carrying the weight of the body of the alien being. The alien walked on its hands, suspending its weaker, bow legged feet in front. With each step, the gold rings worn on its wrists jangled. The entire alien seemed clad in golden jewelry. Tossing its snouted nose into the air, he breathed in a long hard sniff then fixed his beady eyes on the armored Mandalorians before him. Dugs still intrigued Jaster but if most were like Gornuda Korrem, he wasn't interested in crossing paths with many more.

"City seems deserted. Is Yuriim dead?" he inquired with a greedy sneer of yellow teeth.

"See for yourself," Jaster said pointing to the body of the Twi'lek sat upright against a swoop bike. The Dug followed Jaster's finger, chuckling in his throat.

"Give you much trouble?" Gornuda asked.

"Enough for our agreed price." Jaster wanted to close this deal without any further delay. The Dug reeked of greed and debaucher, making the Manda'lor wonder if taking the job from the crime lord was a good decision or not. Gornuda's fleshy barbels dangled from his snout as he looked over at the two members of Clan Viszla. It was apparent they were separate from Jaster's band by the distance at which they stood from each other.

"Why the extra help?" Jaster and his men never needed any 'extra help.' Jaster had plenty of loyal Mandalorians that were ever eager to accompany him on any bounty or job he deemed worthy of their services, perks of being Mand'alor. The moon, Concordia, however was Clan Viszla territory, he had to cut them in.

"Territorial purposes," Jaster answered simply.

"Is that right? I'll be sure to just go to them the next time. Cut out the middle man and save me some credits," Gornuda said.

"Too bad." The Dug sneered at Jaster's curtness.

"Fair enough. As discussed, fifty thousand credits in two packages." With his spindly arms, Gornuda waved his guards forward. One of the Weequays reached into the speeder and hefted two hard-cases. The Weequay carried the cases to where Jaster stood poised with his hands on his hips.

"Open them," he ordered. The guard set the cases on the hard ground and opened them, revealing the rows of credi-chips inside. Their gold-like glow emitted from the cases.

"Its all there," Gornuda said.

"I'm sure it is," Jaster replied as he bent down and closed the cases. He turned away with one in each hand, passing one off to Hos. Pert Jerok had stepped up to Jaster, eager to claim Viszla's cut. "You make sure that gets into Tor's hands," Jaster said sharply.

"No need for concern, Mand'alor," Pert replied before climbing inside the open cabbed speeder. The thrusters gunned to life and the speeder took off with the three of Clan Viszla. Both Gornuda and Jaster had watched them go but then returned their attention to each other. Jaster was through with pleasantries. He nodded Gornuda's way then turned away. Lynn shouldered his sniper blaster and climbed back inside the carrier with Hos already mid-air reaching for the ramp.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mand'alor," the Dug shouted over the sounds of jets. The Q-Carrier was already hovering over the building. With a strong grip, Hos grasped Jaster's wrist and pulled him onboard. As the two stepped inside, the ramp closed behind them.

"Can I kill the scum now?" Montross asked pointing over his shoulder at Gornuda down below.

"We don't kill our employers, no matter how low they are," Jaster replied. He knew Montross too well, there was no real concern. All of Jaster's men were better than that.

"That aint our way, Montross," Lynn added with a punch to Hoss' armored shoulder.

"Gun it, Montross," Jaster said to the large Mandalorian at the controls. The carrier tore through the planet's atmosphere, to the large awaiting Frigate star-ship lingering just beyond the orbit of the moon, Concordia.


	3. Chapter 3

Slower and slower Nane Greil felt his heart inside his chest. It labored in agony. All Nane could see was red, not the red of the dark room's lighting but the red of fading away in a bloody mess. He could hardly take it anymore. He couldn't feel his body any more. All his feeling had just gone numb, but with each new, merciless hit, a new pain surged through him worse than the one from before.

"I can't believe you're actually doing this," the voice said with bemusement. It was coarse and harsh and made Nane shiver each time he heard it. Stepping into view, a man leaned down at eye level with him. His dark, cold eyes fixed Nane harshly. His strong features and long black hair only made him more barbaric than he already seemed. "You do realize that you have absolutely nothing to gain from not telling me," he added. His breath was hot and strong with the scents of hard living. Nane however, noticed little more than his slowing heartbeat. "Come on, Nane," the man urged. With an open palm, he slapped Nane's blood and sweat soaked face. Nane swung freely from the chain holding him up from the ceiling. "Just a minute ago you were singing like a bird," the man said. "Then again, a minute ago, you still had all of your fingers," he added. Nane was no soldier, he couldn't stand up to pain like this. He was only just the assistant to a Mandalorian delegate. What this man wanted, he easily could have learned on his own. But it wasn't just the information the man wanted. He was a barbarian, cruel and evil, everything that Nane and his people despised about their past. That was why he was fighting back. He would not give this man what he wanted. In a flash, the man's rough face contorted with an impulse of rage and his hands clenched the open wounds on Nane's arms. Blood squeezed in his grasp and spit flew from his mouth as he shouted. "Give me the name!" Nane shrieked in agony. It was too much he couldn't hold out any longer.

"Jorhee Kryze!" The name slipped through his screams without him even knowing it. The man released Nane's arms and leaned his open ear closer to Nane's bleeding mouth.

"Kryze, is that what you said?" Nane felt his heart stop. He never wanted to say her name. He felt ashamed as thoughts of what could happen swarmed his mind. His head dropped to his chest after seconds of silently shuddering, his moaning then turned to sobs. Tears mingled with the blood on his face. "Alright," the man said with mock gentleness. "I'll take that as a yes." He rose to his feet and turned away from the dangling, sobbing man. The man walked to a console against the wall of the room. The screen glowed as he typed on the keyboard. After a while he spoke again. "Normally I would commend you for holding out as long as you did," he said as he slowly made his way back to Nane. "But frankly," he continued. The he grasped Nane by his short, brown hair with one hand and unsheathed a short vibroblade with the other. Without a second more of waiting, he drove the devastating blade into Nane's stomach. Nane choked on his own breath as he felt more blood flood his body out through the new wound and his mouth. "I despise all of you pacifists," he hissed in his ear. Nane felt the pierce of the blade a moment longer, then finally his sight and hearing faded, the pain was gone and his heart beat no more.


	4. Chapter 4

The warm glow of the vast throne room did little to melt away his skepticism. With his large frame perched at the edge of his elaborately decorated chair, he ceased his foot from stamping in impatience. His glaring gaze was fixed on the young slender woman standing before the Ruling Council. Her golden hair was pulled back away from her stern fair skinned face. Her eyes, were pale and sharp with conviction behind her words. She truly believed in all that she said and it made Minister Gosha sick. He couldn't help his gaze from bouncing from the woman to the others of the Ruling council. Their own expressions varied greatly from each other. But of the other five Ministers and Mistresses attending in session, it was the stout, unwavering neutrality of Duke Ahmarov. Seated on the throne situated on the steps before them he seemed relaxed but attentive. At his right stood Prime Minister Ulthare. Finally, she stopped talking. Her eyes searched the council as she drifted back to stand out in front of her vacant chair. The chair encircling the throne lend their focus back to the Duke in wait. Ulthare was silent his solid gaze gave nothing away. Gosha knew he and the Duke wouldn't say anything, so he would speak, he would stand for the people of Mandalore. Gosha rose to his feet, standing tall above the rest.

"Mistress Kryze, I've sat here now as you've presented your intentions and frankly, I am appalled." All eyes were on him now, especially Jorhee Kryze's strong gaze. "What possible good do you actually think would come about by handing Mandalore to the Republic?"

"You fail to understand, Minister," she said. "This is not submission, but an outreach. Our people are strong but we have reached the limit of growth from keeping within our system. Why not extend a hand of friendship to the Republic and watch our people thrive through expanded commerce?"

"Our history, Mistress," Gosha retorted sharply. He stood rigid and dignified with his glare sharper than his tongue. "I find it impossible to believe that the Republic will so easily forgive and forget the atrocities of our ancestors."

"It could be argued, Minister Gosha that they already have," another voice said from within the semi-circle of chairs. Minister L'rustan, was the oldest of the council, older even than the Duke of Mandalore. "The day of 'Buurenaar be Tracyn' nearly decimated us. And since, we have repented and evolved from our barbaric ways."

"Minister L'rustan, you and I both know all too well how rooted in tradition our people are. And they will be none too pleased to hear that we are considering crawling to the Republic," said another. Minister Gosha stood more upright and proud. Having the support of Mistress Tryss brought a smirk to his thin, crisp lips.

"The Republic itself has its own issues that I personally would prefer Mandalore not be involved in," added Minister Knolls. "Mistress Kryze," he said looking now to Jorhee. "You argue that our economy would be boosted by opening trade with the Republic. However, a grand majority of the Republic's commerce is tied in with the Trade Federation, and it is no secret the bouts of corruption and conspiracy that plague that guild.

"All that is needed is the right people to act and all they need, is for someone to start," Jorhee stated. Minister Knolls did not look convinced, nor any of the other faces that didn't shy away from their disapproval. At the front of the chamber, Duke Ahmarov stood from his throne. Voices went silent and all eyes fell on him.

"It is apparent nothing more can be decided about this matter in the last few minutes of this session. We are adjourned." All six of the Ruling Council stood from their chairs and bowed to the throne before filing away. Few of them mingled with hushed voices as they walked down the length of the hall to double doors ahead. Watching them go, Duke Ahmarov sighed. The Prime Minister inched closer to the Duke's ear.

"Mistress Kryze is going to bring a lot of trouble," he said.

"Perhaps," the Duke said. "Only time will tell."


	5. Chapter 5

Sparks flared from the tip of Jaster's fusion cutter as he carefully worked at the table. Laying strewn in pieces of three was his JT-12 Jetpack. As much as he could, Jaster avoided the use of his jetpack. He'd found them to be very touchy and nearly unpredictable at times. To him it seemed that his was even more so. It'd nearly killed him three times and just the day before, he'd nearly sprained his leg from it shortening out with him nearly seven feet from the ground.

No matter, however. The job was done, pay distributed and another band of scum scared and sent packing. He was ready to return to his compound on Cheravh and put his ground to the ear again for another job. Business for them had a tendency to be slow, often going for a span of weeks in between paydays, a side effect of taking a strict moral stance.

Jaster had lived a life surrounded by all walks of scum and vile beings. As a young man he'd even dabbled in with them but was quickly straightened out. His three years of incarceration on the planet Concord Dawn helped open his eyes. The prison guards set them to work laboring in the fields of one of the thousands of farms on the planet's surface. They called it 'character building' and it had humbled him, taught him everything his abusive father had neglected to. Upon release, Mereel trained and became a Journeyman Protector. They were the law of Concord Dawn and Jaster took his duty very seriously. But he quickly found that scum was everywhere in the galaxy. Even on the small farming world, corruption spread through the ranks of the Journeyman Protectors. Whether or not it was a slip of judgement, Jaster didn't really think much on it. But even today, he doesn't regret killing his commanding officer. Again Jaster found himself behind bars on Concord Dawn but it was his character witnesses that saved him. He was a free man but in return, he was exiled from his home planet.

For a while he'd been a drifter, searching for a purpose but always remaining the man he'd become in his detainment. It was on Cheravh where he found it, where he found the Mandalorians. It wasn't long before Jaster fell into a familiar pattern though. The difference however between his challenging of Dire Kole, the Mand'alor and the Journeyman Protector Vern Alkeer was that Jaster gave the Mand'alor an 'honorable death.' Dire Kole was a mere pirate and made many enemies among his people, enemies that Jaster had attracted as friends. Jaster became Mand'alor and had little trouble from within his people. Jaster was the new rule of the Mandalorians. Not only did he root out the less savory Mandalorians, he inspired the more honorable ones to rally under his name.

The Supercommando Codex was his word, his law. It was the standard of honor which his people would live by. Of course, living by this standard limited the taste of clients and work offered for his people but, in the end, they were happier than their days under criminals like Dire. It was an easy fix for Jaster, his soldiers would be paid more than him. The bigger their cuts, the more content they were.

Standing from his work bench, Jaster rubbed his eyes as he laid down the fusion cutter and stretched his spine. It felt good to be able to relax somewhat. His flak vest was displayed off in the corner with his grey and red helmet adorned on top. His quarters aboard his Frigate were dimly lit and quite simple. He didn't collect trophies to decorate his walls only a single banner, red with the black sigil that his people recognized him by. The very same one that was emblazoned on both shoulders of his Beskar. The only other decoration he had was the rack of blasters and knives bolted to the wall adjacent to the door. The sudden two solid knocks on the metal door stole his attention.

"Come in," Jaster called. The door hissed open and Montross stepped inside. The tall, broad shouldered Mandalorian was still relatively young compared to the hearty veterans that usually accompanied Jaster. Montross had been with Jaster since he became Mand'alor. It was no question that he looked up to him, which wasn't exactly a responsibility Jaster wanted. But he never had to question the Mandalorian's loyalty. "What is it, Montross?" Jaster asked.

"Tor Viszla has made contact. He demands to speak with you."

"Something wrong with his cut?" Jaster mused.

"No, I already asked him that," Montross said with a smirk. "He says he'll only speak to you," he added.

"This better be important," Jaster grumbled as he moved to the corner and slid his bare arms back into the sleeves of his fatigues. Sliding on his flak vest and putting his chest plates back in place, Jaster then placed his helmet on his head and stepped to the computer terminal against the wall to the right of the door. He pressed a button on the controls and a short, shimmering blue hologram stood on the pedestal. The large Mandalorian too was adorned in his black armor but held his helmet under his arm, allowing his long black hair to sit freely on his shoulders. His rough, grim face stared at Jaster's cold helmeted gaze. It was apparent, that the both of them weren't too thrilled about the meeting. "What is it, Viszla?" Jaster inquired.

"Mand'alor, a matter has come to my attention which I must address to you," Tor said in as dignified a tone as he could muster. To Jaster, it still sounded harsh and seedy.

"You've already got my attention," Jaster said coldly.

"No, no this is something that must be discussed face to face. It concerns our people, Mand'alor," Tor said. He knew just how to play Jaster, appealing to his honor as Mand'alor. For a moment, Jaster stood in silent thought.

"Alright, Viszla, when?" A very subtle grin snuck onto Viszla's face.

"I am currently out of system but will return within this cycle. My shuttle will board your ship," Tor suggested. Jaster thought for a moment longer. With the meeting on his ship, at least he could set the terms, they would be on his grounds.

"Very well," Jaster replied. "You have until the end of this cycle." With a press of a button on the terminal, Tor's image was gone, taking its blue lighting with it, leaving Jaster and Montross in the dimness of his quarters.

"Viszla's coming here?" Montross inquired with a scrunched brow. Jaster removed his helmet and set it on the com terminal.

"Yes. I'll inform the crew that we're staying in system," Jaster said. He stood with his hands rested on his waist, deep in thought. His sharp gaze then fell on the young Mandalorian. "In the meantime, I want you to alert our men, I want them on standby and mission ready." The look on Jaster's sharp expression was dire.

"Think Tor's got a job?" Montross frowned.

"I don't know what to expect but we'll be ready," Jaster replied. Montross' frown deepened.

"You do know that Viszla's not out enemy," he said with a snicker.

"No, no he's not," Jaster said as he stepped closer to Montross. It seemed to be time for another lesson. "But I prefer to have a blaster at hand whenever facing those I don't trust." Montross looked over his shoulder at the wall of blasters behind him then let his gaze drift to the blaster pistol worn on the Mand'alor's hip.

"I just learned something about you," he said looking back at Jaster's gruff face. "You always wear a blaster." Jaster smirked as he placed a hand on Montross' broad, armored shoulder. The young Mandalorian's expression was void of its usual confidence, it was as if he suddenly began to question his place.

"Don't take it personally, Montross. Some habits just don't break."


	6. Chapter 6

Jorhee Kryze wasn't sure what to expect, walking back into the Duke's throne room. It had merely been an hour since being dismissed with the rest of the Ruling Council when her office received the summoning. The elder man stat upon his throne as she took rather long strides down the length of the emerald colored carpet running from the door to the pedestal.

"Mistress Kryze," Duke Ahmarov bid with a smile.

"Yes, my lord?" she replied with a bow of her head.

"Jorhee, I wanted to have a word with you," he said.

"Of course," Jorhee said while still bowed. She raised her head again, standing before the Duke, unwavering. There was no sign of hostility from the old man, but she was ever on her guard, something that brought a smile to the Duke's face.

"You have quite a fire in you, a passion I've not seen in anyone in these halls for quite some time, you even managed to singe Minister Gosha," he added with a look of bemusement.

"I mean no disrespect to these halls," Jorhee said.

"I assure you, they take no insult," the Duke chuckled. "And do not apologize." The Duke observed her with a wise look of fondness. "You are young, and your stance is not popular among many in Sundari, you'll quickly see that," he said with a warning tone. Jorhee's jaw tightened slightly. She wasn't expecting this but was already used to the notion that her cause was folly. "But no matter the persecution or challenge ahead of you, you must never fold under the pressure. Jorhee frowned. Of all things, this was the least expected to be said.

"I assure you, my lord, I will not change my stance anytime soon," she said stiffly yet with caution. "My father raised no coward," she said. "But why do you say this?" Duke Ahmarov lifted himself from the throne and took gentle steps down the pedestal to stand beside the young Mistress.

"For the moment, I will set aside my duty of representing the interests of the people and speak as a Mandalorian," he said. Jorhee watched him intently as his expression was suddenly grave. "If Mandalore was to reach out to the Republic, we would thrive economically. Our social standing within the galaxy would improve exponentially. All past transgressions would be wiped clean." The Duke's gaze was distant and a shine set in his eye as a smile crept on his lips. "We would usher Mandalore into a new era of enrichment. Jorhee watched the wise man in adoration. His thoughts and desires were fully on the betterment of his people. She was glad to have him in her corner. "However, I am no mere Mandalorian. I am their voice, only to defend their values, not to interfere with them, and the people are stubbornly arrogant."

"Then what hope is there?" Jorhee sighed. "Gosha was right about one thing, our people are rooted in tradition. Whether or not we act on violence any longer, a centuries long grudge is still more resilient than an open mind." She sighed again and shook her head which hung low. "Without the backing of the Ruling Council, they won't listen." Ahmarov chuckled as he moved slowly back to his throne.

"Mistress Kryze, you'd be amazed what the words of the right person can accomplish." Jorhee looked up from the glossy floor back to the wise Duke. "Make them listen."


	7. PART 2: Chapter 7

PART 2

The silent black of space was suddenly torn by the sudden arrival of the shuttle. With the appearance of a fierce bird in mid strike, the angled, sharp nose of the bow pierced its way toward the awaiting frigate. Its sharp wings sliced through space, bearing the red claw-like emblem of Clan Viszla. As it neared the open side bay of the frigate. The sharpness of the hull sliced through the energy shield of the bay. The wings of the shuttle rotated inward into the ship's landing configuration. The feet of the landing gear extended, then the ship touched the deck, cushioned by the slight compression of the landing gear.

The bay had been rearranged to accommodate the shuttle. Two distinctly different and highly customized starfighters had been stowed in the far corners of the bay, leaving the shuttle alone in the center of the deck. Standing about clad fully in armor were ten of the twenty-eight Mandalorians accompanying Jaster for the tour of work. Color filled the bleak grey interior of the docking bay from the various schemes and designs worn by the proud force of the Mand'alor.

Standing out before them was Montross, donning his helmet and blaster as ordered by Jaster. He stood in wait with his massive arms folded across the silver plates on his chest. Standing beside him was Geren R'hill clad in his own red, weathered armor. Not far behind them, Hos Brenth clad in his silver and yellow armor sat on a crate with his heavy repeater laid across his lap.

From the underside of the shuttle extended a ramp with jets of steam shooting from the valves. A large, black, armored figure walked down the ramp wearing a flowing, tattered, red cape. Five more similarly armored Mandalorians followed. From the midst of the watchful Mandalorians, Hos Brenth took note of just how close each of Viszla's men kept their weapons.

Without breaking his stride, Tor Viszla removed his helmet, releasing his long black hair. Smug confidence stole away his expression on his harsh face. Whatever was on Viszla's mind, Hos didn't like it one bit. He was adept at perceiving danger and foul intentions, a sense he honed from his early years among pirates. Tor stood before Montross with his helmet held under his arm. The two tall Mandalorians were at eye level. The cold, expressionless face of Montross' traditional Mandalorian helmet served him well, both representing and hiding his scowl.

"I don't believe we know each other," Tor said. "But I remember you from Concordia. What are you, Mereel's boy?" he asked with a squint of his steely eyes. Montross smirked from behind his helmet.

"I've just got Jaster's back, something you'd do well to remember," he said snidely. He turned away from the dark Mandalorian and made his way to the door in the back of the hanger.

"How nice for him," Tor muttered as he followed. The two were silent as they made their way to the upper levels of the frigate. Montross pressed a button and the door slid open with a hiss. Without invitation, Tor stepped inside to a three sided room.

Three leveled bleacher like seats were situated against two adjoining walls, bathed in the blue holographic glow of a projection display in the far corner. Standing in the glow was Jaster Mereel clad in his grey armor. The red cape sat on his shoulders like the mantle of a king. Placed on the panel of the holo projector was his helmet. The veteran Mandalorian's hard expression gave nothing away, only lending a chilled feeling to whomever was trapped in its gaze.

"Dismissed, Montross," he said. The large Mandalorian nodded to his mentor then left, closing the door behind him.

"I like the ship, a bit quaint though," Tor said. He then walked further into the room. "The previous Mand'alor had five of them everywhere he went," he continued as he placed his own black helmet beside Jaster's. "And the welcoming party," he grinned with bemusement. "I'm surprised you didn't have me disarmed." He stared down Jaster with a sneer, his crooked teeth showed dully in the blue light. Jaster however was like stone, not flinching a single bit, always scrutinizing Tor with his piercing stare.

"You have very limited time to tell me why I'm still here," he finally said.

"Of course," Viszla said. "You're a busy man, I'll get right to it then." He turned and faced Jaster, merely feet away from him. "I've received intelligence of a potential threat to Mandalore. The pacifists, the New Mandalorians," he muttered the name bitterly, "have intentions to join the Republic." Tor paused, studying Jaster's unwavering expression. "Being an initiate as you were, you probably are not familiar with our heritage and the gravity of what this means. Mandalore's feud with the Republic goes back to thousands of years, back before the time of the Sith Empire. Perhaps you're familiar with the 'Buurenaar be Tracyn'? he asked.

"Storm of fire," Jaster translated. "Yes I'm familiar. The Republic's preemptive bombardment of Mandalore, scattering our people and inspiring the New Mandalorians."

"Yes," Tor replied bitterly. "A great majority of these decenters were people of my clan. And to have them spit on the grave of our ancestors by reaching out to the Republic in friendship is a grievous insult." Tor's expression grew uglier and more resentful with every word.

"I'm not yet hearing of any threat to our people, Viszla," Jaster said in a sharp tone of his own. It wasn't hard to see what the brute-like Mandalorian was leading to.

"Well then, Jaster-"

"That's Mand'alor, to you," Jaster shot at him with a strong tone. He reasserted his authority and kept Visala in his place. For a moment, it worked. The Mandalorian was taken aback, his harsh gaze opened wide but quickly squinted again with new found resentment.

"Yes of course, Mand'alor," he said through grit teeth. "Let me illustrate this for you. The New Mandalorians' allegiance to the Republic would open our space for their ships to come and go as they please; space that our ancestors fought for, died honorably and conquered; and no Republic vessel has dared venture in." His furious passion mounted as he spoke. "We would lose our power over many worlds. What's more is that sooner or later, the Republic and its Jedi will take interest in our existence. And surely the pacifists will urge them to do something about it." Jaster's gaze refocused as he listened. Some truth was just said, even he couldn't deny that. "As we are now, we cannot endure another assault. Our people will be hunted down and destroyed simply because of what we believe in."

Tor's tone had suddenly changed in Jaster's ears. He felt the sympathy and desire for his people, it was a mutual desire, but Jaster couldn't ignore his instincts. He knew Tor Viszla well enough. From the short time that they'd crossed paths, he'd learned much about the infamous clan leader. His ways were questionable and had once or twice before tempted Jaster to intervene. Nothing here was different.

"I don't disagree with you there," Jaster said. "But it will not go that far. We are not the same enemy the Republic once knew."

"You're right," Tor nodded. "Divided as we are, we are weak. But united…" There it was, the fire in Viszla's eyes. It was all consuming without feeling or thought for anyone or thing that was in its way. "If the full might of every true clan was mustered, we would be unstoppable. We could take back Mandalore and restore our people to the glory of the days of old. With such a force, we could expand our borders, realize the dream of our ancestors. The Republic would be in our grasp and every wrong to us would be reprimanded. We could have the entire galaxy. Just think of it!" he exclaimed.

"I am," Jaster said, finally managing to tear away from the flame in the Mandalorian's eye. "Destruction, oppression and genocide. That is what I see, and there is no honor in it." Viszla straightened his tall posture and glared at him with his mouth hung open.

"You are foolishly turning down the opportunity to rule the galaxy," he said in an exasperated tone. "Every planet of every system to be at your command; wealth beyond your imagination, every breathing thing, man, woman and child at your feet." Jaster glared right back, even stepping up close to the dark Mandalorian.

"I see nothing more than oceans of innocent blood," he said coldly. "Don't forget who you are talking to, Viszla. I established the Supercommando Codex, and if you want to continue to be a free man, you'll let this all go." For a moment the two men glared at each other, both waiting for the other to break first. Tor backed down and turned away from Jaster. He knew it would come to this. The Mand'alor was a stubborn man trapped by his moral code, a weakness that would only get in the way. He placed his hand on the dome of his black helmet.

"It's our destiny, Jaster," he said. And it will be realized without you!" Tor spun around with a jagged vibroblade bared from his gauntlet. He swung at Jaster, going in for a quick kill but the Mand'alor was far ahead of him. Jaster hadn't once let his guard down from the moment Viszla stepped inside. He dodged the blade, allowing his instincts to move his body. In a split second, Viszla attacked again, still only slicing nothing but air. Enraged, he lunged with a growl. Jaster side stepped the attack then made his move. He grasped Viszla's wrist and swung him around. Kicking out the Mandalorian's legs from behind, Viszla dropped to his knees but not before Jaster swiped Tor's blaster pistol from his hip. Taking little time to aim, he fired a single shot, shattering the blade on Viszla's gauntlet. Immobilized, Tor was grappled down in Jaster's hold, while having his own blaster pistol at his head.

"Montross!" Jaster bellowed. The door had opened and the broad Mandalorian had a foot inside. Already alert from the blaster shot, his hands cradled his blaster. The Mandalorian in silver and blue looked at Viszla then slid inside completely, leveling his snub rifle. Jaster released Tor and kicked him to the floor. His black armor plating clanged on the deck from the weight of the impact. Viszla rolled slowly to his back, first looking down the opposite end of Montross' trained barrel. "I should kill you, Viszla," Jaster said while still aiming the blaster pistol. "But I don't kill unarmed prisoners, so its your lucky day." Jaster turned and took his helmet from the panel on the holo-projector. He then set Viszla's blaster down beside the Mandalorian's black helmet. Jaster placed his helmet on his head and stepped out into the hallway as he keyed his comlink. "Hos, any movement among Viszla's men?" he inquired.

"Not much, Jaster," he answered. "Everything alright?"

"We'll see," Jaster replied as he glanced back over his shoulder inside the room. The clanging of boots brought two more Mandalorians down the hall. Protruding from the back of one of their helmets was a pair of lekku, fully wrapped in tough leather. Jaster normally identified his men by their armor patterns, but never had to when it came to the only Twi'lek he had in his immediate forces, Geren R'hill.

"Geren," he called.

"Yes, Mand'alor?" the Twi'lek clad in red armor replied.

"Tor Viszla is under arrest. I'm entrusting you to take him to Holmuroth. The funds will be transferred to your usual account once you contact me from there."

"You got it, Sir," Geren chuckled. "I'm sure the men there will appreciate the new face," he added. "When do I leave?" he inquired.

"Not just yet," Jaster answered. "Something I have to take care of first."

Jaster walked past them and navigated his halls to the lower levels, finally approaching the door to the hanger bay. Upon its opening, he stepped inside and walked briskly through the gathering of his men. As he walked, they made way for him, and straightened their postures in respect. Jaster made his way to the front then stopped, standing solidly before his numbers, facing down the five darkly clad members of Clan Viszla waiting from a distance at the feet of their shuttle. Each of them recognized the Mand'alor and stood beside each other. Few of their helmeted heads searched the gathering of Jaster and his men, searching for any sign of their leader. Their body language gave away their thoughts and worries. Jaster saw weapons being clenched and feet shifting into defensive stances.

"Tor Viszla has been arrested for treason," Jaster declared loudly. "I order you to stand down and return home. I will not ask again. The hanger rang with a thin echo of Jaster's voice. Silence soon set in as blood rushed through the veins of every armored man on board. The odds were of little consequence to five of Clan Viszla, each were poised and ready to strike and likewise, Jaster's band of twenty-six were equally ready. It seemed as if seconds had stretched into the length of minutes. Just one false move from either end, and the hanger would be alit with the searing glow of blaster fire. Finally the dark armored figures stepped back and one by one, filed up the ramp, back inside their shuttle. Mandalorians gathered along the wall of the hanger eased their weapons as they watched the shuttle rise from the deck and turn around, flying out of the docking bay. Jaster stood before them, watching the sublight engines shrink as the ship soared to the brown surface of the moon, Concordia. "Geren, bring him out," Jaster said over his comlink. From the gathering of Mandalorians, Hos approached him.

"So Viszla's under arrest, what's that about?"

"It's a long story, Hos," Jaster replied. You'll understand when I address the men."

Murmurs filled the hanger, questions and extrapolations. The doors opened again, allowing in the enraged screams of a madman. All eyes fell on the thrashing Mandalorian as he spit and spewed profanity. Hold him from behind was both Montross and Geren R'hill. Tor's hands were bound behind his back. His armor mounted flak vest and gauntlets were removed, leaving only the Mandalorian in his black dark grey fatigues. Wrists bound from behind, Viszla was dragged to the front of the hanger.

"Fools! You'll all burn!" His venomous gaze then befell on Jaster, glaring straight through the traditional 'T' visor of his helmet. "You're a coward, Mereel," he hissed. "Kill me now, because I will kill you and it won't be clean." Jaster stepped closer to Viszla, his visor a mere three inches from the man's crooked nose.

"I'm a law-man, Tor," he said in a low tone. "I don't kill prisoners." He stepped back and indicated to one of the awaiting Starfighters in the corner of the hanger. "Take him away." Geren and Montross both dragged Tor away, the enraged Mandalorian bellowing over and over calling Jaster a coward. His screams were finally cut out by the closing of the starfighter's boarding ramp. Jaster turned away and made his way to the door with Hos still behind him. "Assemble the men in the ops center," I'll explain everything there."

"You got it, Jaster," Hos mumbled.

They were all waiting for him. The ops center was filled with curious Mandalorians, but they would have to wait. Jaster passed the op center on his way back to his quarters. He had little time to return and curb their impatience. He moved to the com terminal and stood before it. The emitting plate glowed as he keyed in the frequency. He didn't have to wait long for an answer. Projected on the plate was a holographic figure of a short haired woman. Her complexion was just as dark as her black plated armor. Grid around her waist, she wore a grey kama with brown leather holsters clasped to her thighs. Her hands set on her hips as a sly smile crept onto her lips. There was history between Jaster Mereel and Naja Lovac but they were both professionals.

"Mand'alor," she greeted. "This is unexpected. What might I do for you?"

"Reconnaissance on the Viszla compound on Concordia," Jaster answered, getting straight to the point.

"Viszla?" she echoed with a cocked eyebrow. Her sneer deepened even further. "Expecting trouble?"

"Tor Viszla has been detained and his people are wound tight," Jaster explained. "I want eyes on them."

"Understood," Naja said.

"I want this done with the highest discretion. Purely recon," he stated sharply. "Do not engage them unless fired on."

"Alright," she said with a nod. "I'll send one of our more stealthy operators. He'll deploy within the hour. I'll send you his personal com channel for further instructions."

"I appreciate it, Naja." By the sound of it, this was exactly what he wanted, but still he would play it out cautiously. A call into the Prudii Kad was usually a double edged sword. They were the blackest of any mercenary unit that Jaster was among an elite few to know of. But they had no limitations, regardless of their orders, a job would be done. The last thing Jaster wanted was a war and all he could hope for was that he didn't just light the fuse.


	8. Chapter 8

The howl of the blizzard swallowed the engines of the Starfighter. Thick, wild flurries of snow blotted out the red glow of its sublight engines as it soared through the grey sky of Harswee with ease. The planet's only surface was glacial ice with the rest consumed with an ocean on the brink of freezing over. Only one settlement existed on the surface, the remote prison outpost, Holmuroth. The Starfighter descended to the icy surface, hovering low as it continued to the crack of light from the opening hanger doors. Four turbo-laser turrets tracked the ships trajectory as it entered the hanger. The doors were quickly shut to shield all inside from the planet's storming blizzard. Five Mandalorians approached the ship, each with their weapons within their grasp. The boarding ramp of the Starfighter lowered and a Mandalorian with leather wrapped lekku stepped out of the ship. Gerren R'hill led a stretcher that hovered off the floor. Strapped to it was a man with a heavy build and long black hair. One of the five Mandalorians approached Gerren, holstering his blaster pistol. His armor plating was pale green adorned over a grey flight suit. On his right shoulder was their clan sigil, the symbol of Holmuroth. The entire clan was dedicated to the security of the Mandalorian prison.

"R'hill?" he inquired.

"Gerren R'hill," the Twi'lek Mandalorian replied. "Dropping off, Mand'alor's orders." The clan leader looked over Gerren's shoulder at the man strapped down to the stretcher.

"You sedated him?" he inquired.

"Only way to shut him up, should wear off in a few minutes."

"We'll take him from here," the clan leader said. Gerren took a step, standing between him and the stretcher.

"Mand'alor wants me to see him through," the Twi'lek said stiffly. The leader in green armor paused for a moment in thought before nodding and turning around, leading Gerren with the stretcher across the hanger floor. The leader nodded to another of the guards, a woman clad in red plating. She nodded back and lowered her own blaster rifle, joining the rest of the procession to the door in the far wall.

"Are you Mereel's new go-for?" she asked Gerren.

"Mand'alor entrusts me at times to do his will, and I carry out gladly. The pay is just bonus," he replied. Though he'd executed a number of operations for Jaster, this was only his second to Holmuroth, though the first time, he never left the ship. He was one of the handful under the Mand'alor's banner that was privy to the prison's existence. Jaster Mereel seemed content with its effectiveness but the Twi'lek was far less trusting. "Word is this is the most secure prison in Mando space," Gerren said.

"Having doubts?" the green clad Mandalorian retorted.

"Just seeing the job through," Gerren said.

"Fair enough. Follow, I'll put your mind to ease," he beckoned.

"Knox, he's an aruetil," hissed the woman in red plating.

"He's on the Mand'alor's orders, Yuri," Knox said then refocused on Gerren. "See those shutters up there?" Gerren followed Knox's pointed finger to the shutters situated high up on the walls. "Anyone we don't like step inside here, we vent Cryseefa gas, corrosive and poisonous. Eats through Beskar in a single minute." Knox led the procession to a cross-closing hatch that slowly slid open. "These blast doors are calibrated to open at a slow pace but close using compression bursts." As the last of the procession stepped into the hall, the halves of the door slammed shut with a hiss. Gerren looked back at the thick metal blast doors, now sealed in a split second. "Four way directional surveillance camera feeds installed in every room and hall way, except for the residential barracks, of course," Knox grunted said with a chuckle. Gerren frowned from behind his helmet.

"Residential barracks?" he inquired.

"Our homes," Yuri said. The second set of blast doors slowly split and crept open. They all stepped through into a circular chamber.

"You share beds with the prisoners?" Gerren chuckled.

"The cell blocks are on the lower level," Knox explained. "We reside up here on the surface level." He pointed across the room to the only other set of doors in the circular room. One of the guards, a rather short Mandalorian in orange detailed plating approached the stretcher with a scanning tool in his hand. As the tool skimmed inches above the stretcher, a red beam searched the captive prisoner's dormant body. All armor plating was removed from the prisoner, including the shin, knee and thigh plates bolted to the legs of the flight suit, leaving only torn holes in the dark grey fabric. After tracing the man's entire form, the guard backed away from the stretcher.

"He's clear, Buir," the guard reported in a young voice. Gerren's brow furled in surprise. The guard had to be no older than sixteen.

"Kandosii, adi'ka," Knox said with a nod.

"Your son?" Gerren asked curiously.

"We're all family here," Knox explained. "My Father in-law was Warden before me, and someday, either my son or daughter will take over." Knox then directed the assembly to step onto a disc platform in the center of the room. GERREN led the stretcher onto the platform. The Warden keyed his comlink in his helmet.

"Sa'jek, activate the lift." The dull quiet in the room was suddenly swallowed by a whirring sound. Gently, the platform lowered, with an echoing moan as they descended down a tube like hole. Lights went by slowly in the dark wall of the elevator shaft.

"How far down," Gerren inquired in a marveled tone.

"A mere fifteen yards," the warden replied. "You aint claustrophobic are you?" Knox asked. Gerren didn't reply, only stared him down from behind his helmet. Finally, the lift emerged into open space. The room was tight and fairly empty except for the air circulation tubes that ran along the plain, white walls. "Behind you there is the security hub for the prison blocks," Knox explained. "And that hall there branches into three individual cell blocks." He led Gerren and the other guards down to the passage way, passing through another set of specially calibrated blast doors. Coming to a three way split, Knox led them down the right hand passage. After a final set of blast doors, they came to the cell block. Gerren saw ten large metal boxes the size of cargo containers hauled in the massive holds of cargo freighters. Five were lined along opposite walls and branching out to the tops of each of them was a system of metal walkways all by a central path with a staircase. Hooked to each solid metal cell was a heating life support system with heating and ventilation.

"Impressive," Gerren said. "How many prisoners have you got here?" Knox looked over his shoulder as he led them up the staircase to the junction of walkways.

"Including your man, seventeen."

"That's actually a record," Yuri mused.

"Really?" Gerren scoffed in disbelief. "How's that?"

"Mereel's the first Mand'alor in a long time that takes prisoners," Knox replied. The warden then stopped at cell twenty seven, situated to the right near the back of the block.

"Sa'jek, activate cell twenty seven," he ordered over his com. After a moment, Gerren heard the hum of machinery coming to life then the hatch in the roof of the cell slid open. The Twi'lek looked down into the cold, dark hole. That was all the prison had to offer, lighting strips climbed up the corners of the walls, providing a red glow. No bed or chair of any kind was down inside the solid metal cell. One restraint at a time, the prisoner was released from the stretcher. His eyes were still closed but as he was lifted off the stretcher, his mouth cracked open and an unintelligible slur slipped free.

"He's still out," the young Mandalorian in orange grunted as he hefted the large frame of the prisoner. On the other side of the prisoner was a larger built Mandalorian adorning brown armor.

"Don't worry, the fall will wake him," he mused. Gerren watched as the two Mandalorians dragged Tor Viszla's limp body to the edge of the open hatch then let him go. As he dropped into the darkness, Viszla yelped, suddenly fully alert. He crashed to the hard floor surface with a grunt. Gerren heard the enraged Mandalorian stirring below as Knox ordered for the hatch to be closed. Instantly, the lock engaged and the crazed screams below were shut away. Gerren couldn't help but stare at the locked hatch.

"Well that's that," Knox said.

"Don't you even want to know who he is?" the Twi'lek asked, finally looking away from the sealed cell.

"We make it a point not to," Knox replied stiffly as he turned away and bid Gerren to follow him back down the central walkway. "Men aren't brought here to be recognized, they're brought here to be forgotten."


	9. Chapter 9

Concoria's harsh, coarse terrain was riddled with crags and canyons that towered above valleys of hard rock. Down on the floor of one of these valleys was the compound of Clan Viszla. From above, several separate buildings installed like temporary army posting could be depicted. Surrounding the collection of buildings was a wall with only a single gate protected by blaster turrets. Over some parts of the compound, camouflage netting was cast over the buildings, but from just the right angle and with the proper equipment, there was no hiding from the eyes of the Prudii Kad.

There were more than nine ideal observation posts that Walon Vau could have settled in either along the southern ridge of the canyon, or inside one of the many caves in the rock face. Walon decided on the cave, preferring the concealment of the shadows from the exposure of the open air. This was his specialty, which was why Naja Lovac had chosen him for the operation.

The orders came straight from the Mand'alor himself, she needed someone she could trust, and the young man from Irmenu had never yet let her down. As he lurked in the shallow end of the shaded cave, he cast on a large tan poncho over his matte black armor plating. All of the Prudii Kad sported black plating, which sometimes didn't serve well in certain theatres.

Walon approached the edge of the cave and laid behind his perched PW-5S sniper blaster rifle. The sleek, yet ancient rifle was retrofitted to Walon's preferences. He was extremely picky about his equipment, like most Mandalorians that manage to survive the life longer than a few years. The scope to his rifle was folded off the side, eaving only the iron sights for aiming. The range finder on Walon's black Mandalorian helmet lowered over his eye providing his HUD with an enhanced view of the compound below. A targeting reticule traced the panning motion of his aim. Below, both armored and unarmed figures bustled about, completely oblivious to Walon's watching eye. All seemed quiet from where he lay. Walon sighed, trying to consider his options of fending off the boredom sure to come from this op.


	10. Chapter 10

Taking long strides, Jorhee Kryze rubbed her temples. The bright lighting of the hall way only compounded the pain in her head from grueling three days she had just faced. When Duke Ahmarov had warned the Mandalorian Mistress that her views would be highly unpopular, Jorhee never imagined this. Every channel she and her staff could conceive of was quickly pulled from under their feet by the intense disposition of her message. It was not all a loss however, at the moment there was one small victory that had kept her on her feet. Syndicated appearances were out of the question so she would do the next best thing, public campaigning. The idea of standing out in the open of Sundari's busiest public square was unnerving but what other choice did she have. Jorhee took a deep breath, relieved that at least for the moment, she didn't have to worry about it. Down the far end of the hall, a man lightly clad in blue ceremonial armor paced in her direction.

"Mistress Kryze," he greeted pleasantly with a nod.

"Lieutenant," she nodded back trying hard to force a smile. The Lieutenant halted his patrol and gave her an empathetic gaze.

"Ma'am, are you well?" he asked. Jorhee sighed, slouching her shoulders ever slightly. The tension in her face was suddenly gone, and her smile came naturally.

"It has been a long day," she answered in a heavy tone. Her eyes seemed to ease closed now that she felt a soothing calm.

"Then might I be so bold, Milady, to suggest that you go inside, your family is anxious to see you," the Lieutenant said with a bright smile of his own. In a very sophisticated manner, he bowed and indicated to her apartment's doors. Color blushed her pale fair face as she fought back a foolish grin.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Vyne," she said bowing back before stepping through the opened door. She walked inside, allowing the door to slide closed behind her. "Good day, Korkie," she whispered to herself.

From where she stood in the threshold of her home, all seemed quiet and empty. At the far end of the room were tall expansive windows. The late noon sky projected through the protection of Sundari's bio-sphere was orange, playing off of the teal, blue tones of the city. Jorhee walked down the short, wide hall but her tranquility was suddenly shattered. From around the corner, her butler droid appeared.

"Mistress Kryze, how good it is to see you home," the sleekly built droid greeted. "Mister Moze awaits you on my transmitter." Jorhee groaned slightly as she looked down at the holo.

"Thank you, BE2-1," she said. "Activate transmitter." The droid nodded and held out his hand. From the projector installed in his palm, a short blue hologram of her aide, Moze, stood impatiently in wait. "Yes, Moze?" she inquired impatiently. The dark skinned man sighed with an expression of relief.

"Madame, there is something that requires your immediate attention," he said. Jorhee saw the overwhelming desperation in his eyes.

"Moze, now is not a good time," Jorhee said firmly.

"This is about Griel, Madame." The young mistress' ears perked slightly as she looked down at the hologram.

"Nane?" she inquired. "I've not heard from for a while now."

"No one has, Madame. He's disappeared."

"Your saying he never returned from the Concordian Embassy?" she asked. "Have you tried contacting the embassy?"

"Yes we have," Moze answered. "He attended the conference as planned then returned to his suite. From there he vanished." Her aide struggled with the last word as if he was still trying to convince himself. Jorhee gazed about in horrified bewilderment.

"Has his family been notified?" she asked with a tone laden with grief.

"His wife has been contacting us frequently for updates," he replied. His own eyes dropped with a grief heavier than her own, he had been the one she would talk to, he heard her desperation and fear.

"I will speak to her personally," Jorhee said.

"There's more, Madame. Word has reached us of petitioning to ban your public address. We are being told by the authorities to cancel your appearances tomorrow."

"What!" Jorhee exclaimed. "That is illegal! They can't arrest me just because they don't want to hear what I have to say."

"Their saying you could incite rioting and violence among the citizens," Moze said timidly.

"This is preposterous, Gosha is behind this!" she hissed angrily. Suddenly a voice sounded from around the corner, deeper inside the apartment. It was like a beckoning call through the fog of her temper.

"Jorhee," it called again. The voice was masculine, yet gentle and calming as it always had been throughout her life. She looked away from the small hologram and saw a tall man standing down the end of the hall. A smile was on his face from behind the trimmed greying beard encircling his crisp mouth. Yaeger was always a stout Patriarch of the Kryze family and the banker never had to pick up blaster to prove it. He was always a gentle man and always won his battles through his fierce charm.

"Father," she said then redirected her focus back on the hologram waiting on the palm of her droid. "I will contact you again later, we're not done yet," she said strongly. Moze bowed and the blue figure suddenly fazed away. "Thank you, BE2-1, that will be all," she said to the droid.

"Madame," it said with a bow then spun on its heel and walked away. Jorhee felt like a child again, rushing into the awaiting arms of her father. Not all but most of her worries seemed to flush out of her mind and she felt right at home.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Punkin," he said.

"Its been busy," Jorhee replied. Stressing thoughts of work attempted to plant in her mind again but she fought it back, not yet wanting to leave the peace of this moment. "How's Mother?" she inquired. Her father smiled broadly.

"She's perfectly fine and getting stronger every day," he answered. "Come on," he beckoned as he let her go. With his large hands placed on his daughter's shoulders, he guided her into the living room. A wide, semi-circle sofa was situated along the back wall below the stained glass window. Warm colors shone and danced on a woman dressed in a flowing green robe. Her long ginger hair sat freely on her shoulders. Mona Kryze's shining smile beamed down at the bundle of white blankets cradled in her arms, her second daughter. Jorhee was speechless as she approached her mother on the sofa.

"Jorhee," Mona said softly, looking up at her with bright green eyes. "This is Satine." Jorhee's mouth hung open as she gazed at the infant in awe. "Say hi to your big sister," Mona whispered to the bundle with a smile. Slowly, she reached out, placing the baby in Jorhee's awaiting arms. She was beautiful, fair skinned with a short matte of bright blonde hair on her head. The baby was merely two days old with her eyes shut tight as she stirred in the swaddling of blankets.

Jorhee had awaited nine months to meet her first sister and the moment had finally come. Often at times when she could spare it, she had thought of this moment, yet it was nothing like how she felt now. A new life, innocent and pure lay in her arms, unaware of the world and its troubles. But inevitably, Satine will grow up and the world would no longer seem so innocent. If only the rest of Mandalore could see that what she saw now, a new life and feel the desire she felt to make the world as best for her as she could. Duke Ahmarov's words suddenly became clearer to her. Jorhee could make a difference, and she would do it for Satine, for Mandalore's future.


	11. Chapter 11

The blaring alarm sounded within Walon's helmet, his two hours were up. He sat up in the shade of the cave and removed his helmet. With a gloved hand, he wiped the sleep from his face and quickly glanced about. He was still alone and undetected. Walon retrieved his Westar-20 placed freely at his side and holstered it on his hip. Such measures were necessary on solo operations, but it was how Walon preferred it. He stood up tall, yet without the need to duck in the cave's low ceiling. He slicked back his short hair that appeared more of an extremely pale brown than it did blonde. He laid back down behind his sniper still perched and awaiting his finger to close in around the trigger. Set up at his side was a portable monitor linked to his network of sensors. Quickly glancing through the feeds, there were no spikes of activity as he had slept.

For three days now he had been out there, stuck in the confines of the cave's concealment. As he spent many long hours of watching Clan Viszla's compound from above, nothing had happened. Life seemed to carry on normally below.

The sun radiated high in the cloudless sky. The young Mandalorian replaced his black helmet and checked his chronometer display on his HUD. It was nearly mid-day which meant that in less than ten minutes, a routine speeder would be arriving to the gate of the compound. It would be the perfect entry into the compound. Walon could easily sneak inside by boarding the speeder which would smuggle him through the walls. But his orders were clear, he was there for observation only, though still, the idea was persistently and his keen mind as if working against him formulated a plan without him even fully realizing it. The minutes passed and Walon spotted the midday speeder arrival. It was hard to tell what exactly what this speeder was doing and made Walon more and more curious. He watched it like a hawk, placing his sniper's sight on the craft as it sped down the hard valley floor. The speeder was open cabbed, exposing both the driver and the passenger. To Walon's surprise, he spotted a third. Seated in the back was another passenger. Like the other two, the third was Mandalorian except his helmet was laid on the seat beside him. Walon zoomed his sniper in at maximum and studied the man's lean, hollow cheeked face. The man had a hooked nose with a high forehead. He squinted in the whipping air as the speeder skimmed over the terrain, throwing his long black hair in the wind. Walon was beyond himself, it couldn't be who he thought it was. As far as he knew, Tor Viszla was out of the picture. Though there wasn't much publicly known about the members of Clan Viszla, its infamous chieftan was a hard miss and from where Walon lay perched, this was a striking resemblance. As the speeder traveled closer to the gate, his view became more obstructed.

"Feirfek," Walon muttered to himself. He needed to get a closer look. Walon backed away from his sniper and sat on the cave floor puzzled with thought. His orders were clear, to observe the compound and report to the Mand'alor of strange behavior. As long as he didn't shoot anyone in the process, he figured he would still be in the clear.


	12. Chapter 12

As Concordia's sun slipped from its perch high in the clear sky, it glowed red behind the canyon. It wasn't dark quite yet but the valley was now swallowed in the shade of the canyon's shadow. Now would have been the ideal time for Walon to sneak across the valley but in the off chance of a random speeder coming through during the six hours between his decision to infiltrate the compound and now, he would be ready.

It was nerve wracking, just hunkering down out in the open up against the wall just mere yards from the gate clearly in range and sight of the turbo lasers. But Walon wasn't as exposed as he felt. Equipped on his belt was a stealth field generator. He was effectively invisible to the naked eye and as long as he stayed perfectly still, no sensors would detect him. The equipment was far from perfect, any movement faster than a slow walk would distort the stealth field and expose him. It had made the slow creeping across the valley floor to the outer wall slow and arduous.

Though he couldn't rush to his post, he also didn't have forever to get there. Walon had keyed a remote jammer on the compounds sensor relays to mask his movement, leaving him roughly a forty-five minute window, assuming a technician inside the compound didn't realize the sensors were jammed. Walon managed to make it within his window, if only by mere seconds.

He glanced over at the chronometer on his HUD, quietly groaning as the sixth hour turned but not all seemed so bleak. Along with the coming of the 18th hour came the second routine arrival of another mysterious speeder. His waiting would paid off the minute he would spot headlights. Walon watched the time go by and with each passing minute, he felt his nerves building. For the past three days this eighteenth hour speeder was never late. Could he have something to do with it? Had he somehow been detected? Where did he slip up? The questions wreaked havoc in him mind, and suddenly he felt very hot inside his helmet. No he couldn't have slipped, it was just pre mission jitters. It was normal for any young soldier like him but Walon was special. He wasn't like most young Mandalorians. He was calm with a chilled persona that made him far matured past his age of twenty-six. It was one of the main reasons Naja Lovac ever recruited him to the Prudii Kad. He knew how to blend in and keep calm when the time called for it.

Walon breathed deeply, summoning his inner calm to freeze the blood coursing uncontrollably through his veins. Dusk was begging to set in, with the suns light merely now becoming a red mist in the cooling air. Then the lights appeared. Four beams of light shone before the nose of the speeder. As slow as he could manage, Walon shifted his stance, getting off of his stomach and crouching low, ready to pounce. He'd only have one shot at this and even then, he would be perfectly visible for more than a second. The speeder was larger than the first with four passengers already on board. The rear of the craft was wider and Walon could spot a foot of clearance from the edge to the tarp covered cargo in the back. His moment finally came. The speeder reached the gate, slowing to a complete stop. Walon made his move, not waiting to hear the mechanics of the gate sliding open. He moved carefully on stiff legs un cooperative legs. He cursed under his breath from the annoying tingle that pricked at his legs from laying still for all those hours. The gate was nearly open by the time he reached the rear of the craft. Carefully, Walon clambered onto the back. He knew the sudden movements distorted his stealth field but it didn't matter. The cargo in the back served as perfect cover from the Mandalorians on board the speeder. With only few seconds to settle in place, the speeder moved again, this time at a far slower rate. Walon hugged tightly to the cargo as the speeder passed through the gate and into the inside of the compound. A building was situated close to the inside of the wall only mere yards from the gate. Walon dove off the side of the speeder, crashing into a roll directly behind the small structure. Walon skid to a halt then jumped to his feet. There was no use in creeping about slowly under his stealth field generator any longer. If anyone happened to see him while he dove from the speeder, it'd be better to blend in quickly amongst whatever crowd he could hide in. He powered down the stealth field generator on his belt and quickly moved behind the shed like structure and its neighboring building. Now further into the compound, Walon emerged from the shadows into the midst of surrounding people.

The compound was like a small town with market tents established in high traffic areas. The citizens seemed like any normal townspeople. Some wore selective plates of Mandalorian armor, all painted in dark hues of grey and black. Walon smirked behind his helmet, at least he in his pure black armor would fit in just fine amongst crowds. Many of the clan had dark hair and olive skin, no doubt from living under Concordia's harsh sun.

Walon posted casually against the wall of a building overlooking the market. Utilizing both his sharp eyes and the range finder on his helmet, he scanned the crowds around him. As he searched about, he frowned. Every face around him was either young and oblivious or old and extremely tired with age, and none of them were men. Some of the elders were male, but well beyond the years of a soldier, even for a Mandalorian. Women and children all walked about as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if the prospect of war never came to mind. He searched about for any sign of gathering soldiers or caches of weapons but not a single sign of either was in sight.

"Odd," Walon muttered. It was all very troubling to him. Clan Viszla was known for its sheer number of soldiers and allied mercenaries, yet not a single one could be found. Walon moved through the compound thinking he'd come across one at any moment. But none were there to be found. However he did know of at least one within the compound and still had to know for sure; was Tor Viszla somewhere inside the walls?

During his observations from his post in the cave, Walon had identified possible high value locations, if Tor Viszla was in the compound, he'd be in one of those locations. A large two story structure in the heart of the compound had seemed undisturbed by a grand majority of the clan. A large banner was draped across its doorway sporting the image of jagged talon. If Walon had to guess, it was where Tor called home. He made his way to the edge of the market place until the building was in sight. It was the only building with more than one level. Its second landing was a balcony that observed the entire compound, the perch of a king looking down on his subjects. Walon studied it from a distance, there were no guards, nor any sign of life about the building. It seemed abandoned, members of Clan Viszla passed by as if no one even knew it was there.

More and more, it seemed unlikely that even Tor Viszla was inside but Walon had other possibilities. Off to the east along the wall of the compound was what Walon deduced to be an armory. He remained as discrete as possible, sticking to the dwindling numbers of roaming citizens. With the sun retreating further and further behind the hills with every minute, he knew he couldn't remain anonymous within the walls much longer. He spotted the armory from a distance and casually made his way in its direction. Then he heard voices. A window to what seemed like someone's home was wide open. Even without his surveillance system installed in his armor's computer, he could make out the conversation through the stillness of the compound.

"But where are you going?" demanded a woman. Her voice wasn't stern but laden with grief.

"I can't tell you, you know that," replied a man impatiently. "I'm only back for the last of the cache. Thought I at least owed you a goodbye."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she spat with spite.

"Just be honored that I am doing the Chieftan's noble work," the man said. Walon's eyes narrowed with focus. This was what he came for.

"So the rumor's aren't true, Tor isn't gone?" he woman asked.

"Not after tonight," the man replied. From inside, footsteps carried away from the window.

"Pert, wait!" called the woman. "So that's it, you're leaving?"

"Ship's leaving, nothing else to say." The door to the home slid open off to Walon's right. Grumbling a curse under his breath, he quickly engaged his stealth field generator and crouched low a mere two yards from the open door. Light poured out from the house but was suddenly blotted out by a lean figure in dark Mandalorian armor. Long, greasy, black hair hung below his shoulders. In one hand was a blaster rifle and in the other, his helmet. As he passed by Walon, the sly Mandalorian studied his profile. The high forehead and hooked nose was a dead giveaway, he was Walon's mark, but definitely not Tor Viszla.

As Pert Jerok continued down the lane, Walon followed him, creeping slowly enough to remain invisible. Jerok was boarding a ship o somewhere and the Prudii Kad operator was going to find out where. Pert obliviously led Walon to the rear of the compound.

From his days of observation, Walon had taken interest in the landing pad. He spent many hours watching the small pad where a Starfighter sat dormant. No one went in or out and for all three days, it never moved. Instead, the speeder Walon had rode in on waited with three dark armored Mandalorians already boarded. The men said little to each other as Pert Jerok joined them in the passenger's seat. Strapped down in the rear covered by a tan tarp was another large pile of cargo, no doubt the cache Pert had let slip of. Walon moved as quickly as possible to not disrupt his stealth field generator. As the engines whined to life, he clambered in the back. This ride was going to be longer than the first but he had to know where this cache and Pert Jerok were going. As the speeder left the compound, it picked up in speed, soaring above the valley of the canyon. Walon clenched onto the back, struggling to remain on board from the force of acceleration. The ride was far from smooth as the repulsor engines bounced the speeder about with the various bumps of the terrain. Once or twice, Walon attempted to peek under the tarp but nearly lost his grip of the speeder each time. For what felt like ten minutes, Walon struggled to remain on board. The speeder shot like a blaster bolt into the mouth of a canyon and slithered along its curves like a serpent. Finally the speeder slowed down as the canyon suddenly widened into a bowl. The speeder came to a halt and voices became audible over the engines.

"About time, time to go" bellowed another dark Mandalorian as he ran down the entry ramp of a freighter. Walon slowly slipped off the back of the freighter and crept away from the lights of the awaiting ship. He knelt by a formation of rock and watched as the six members of Clan Viszla all tore away the tarp and loaded large crates one at a time up the ramp. Using his helmet's HUD Walon zoomed in his view for a closer look at the labels coded onto the grey, metal crates. He couldn't read the codes there, he'd have to access a computer with decryption software. Walon activated his visual feed recorder as he watched each crate get carried into the freighter. Finally they were down to the last crate. Five of the Mandalorians boarded the freighter then the ramp closed. The sixth stood on the cargo bed of the speeder as he watched the freighter lift off the ground, climb above the canyon walls then shoot off into the night sky. Walon stood from his position, deactivated his stealth field generator and drew his Westar 20 from its holster. The remaining member of Clan Viszla approached the pilot's seat of the speeder but never made it to the seat. Walon aimed carefully then fired. Wailing in pain and surprise, the Mandalorian toppled over the side of the speeder and crashed onto the ground.

Groaning, the Mandalorian grasped his shot leg and looked up at Walon, standing like a ghostly silhouette in the moonlight with his blaster still smoking. The Mandalorian growled as he quickly clawed at his own blaster pistol in its holster. Walon took no time at all aiming then firing another shot. The red bolt struck the man in the arm, burning straight through his grey flight suit. Dissuaded, he dropped flat on his back, moaning in pain.

"You'll pay for that!" he growled through his screams of pain.

"You'll pay far more if you don't tell me what I want to know," Walon said with a sharp tone. The man's groans contorted into labored cackles.

"You're wasting your time, you'll get nothing from me." Walon knelt down close to the wounded man, his Mandalorin 'T' inches away from the other's as he grabbed and pulled him up by the collar of his flak vest.

"I've got all the time in the world, now let me show you what I'm going to do with it."


	13. Chapter 13

The door opened at Geren's approach, just as the Warden, Knox said it would. With the Twi'lek Mandalorian acting on the orders of the Mand'alor himself, Knox felt obligated to allow him full access and observation of the prison. According to Geren, it didn't seem to matter to the Mand'alor that Holmuroth was the most secure Mandalorian prison, he was taking every precaution to ensure that his prisoner, Tor Viszla remained incarcerated.

Geren stepped inside of the cramped, dimly lit room. The entire back wall was consumed in visual uplinks to the countless number of cameras installed all over the prison. In the middle of the wall was the status display of the facilities various systems. Tubed wires ran across the walls all leading to the security hub.

Only one Mandalorian manned the security hub, Sa'jek. Geren had met everyone among the clan except for the security technician. It was obvious Sa'jek didn't leave his chair in the hub very often. His hair ran past his shoulders and he seemed to never bother to shave. He never bothered to wear full armor. Glancing to his left, Geren spotted Sa'jek's gauntlets stacked off in the corner along with his flak vest and helmet, leaving only his brown colored knee guards still worn over his green flight suit. Geren approached from behind, slowly scanning over each screen.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Sa'jek said casually, still facing his computer.

"I have the Mand'alor's authority," Geren said, still lost in the many security feeds.

"Yeah I know, the boss said that earlier, Sa'jek replied stiffly.

"Just spoke with the Mand'alor, he wanted me to inspect the security hub," Geren explained. "Are you another son?" Geren inquired.

"Brother in-law," Sa'jek answered. "Long boring story, none of it your concern." Geren was still enamored by the display.

"So this is it then? All security for the prison is controlled here?" Geren asked.

"The one and only," the Mandalorian answered proudly. "Remote access is one-hundred percent impossible."

"Good," Geren said. His eyes had finally stopped scanning from behind his helmet and was now focused on a single visual. Looking straight down from inside a dark, tight square box Geren watched a man tirelessly exercising, pushing his body off the ground in perfect stride. "That's good." By the sudden flash of the muzzle and ring of a blaster, Sa'jek slumped forward in his chair, a trail of black smoke rising from the wound in the back of his head. Geren R'hill grabbed the body by its shoulders and heaved it out of the chair. The Twi'lek slid in place and placed his blaster pistol down on the console, mere inches away from where Sa'jek had placed his. First step was to lock the hanger down from the hallway. Geren checked his chronometer, it was finally time.

The doors to the hanger slid open and the stillness was shattered by the howl of the blizzard. Night had fallen on Harswee and the time had finally come. From the flurry of wild snow, a sleek black starship emerged and entered Holmuroth's hanger with ease. Little time was spent on landing procedures. The landing gear lowered along with the boarding ramp, both touching the floor at the same time. Eight black armored Mandalorians filed out, all with their blaster rifles leveled. Moving swiftly, they filed to the sealed door. Two broke off the formation and posted on either sides of the entry while the other six took cover behind crates.

"In position," Meltch Krakko reported into the comlink with a deep voice. Slowly the cross-sealing blast door retracted with a hiss. With the opening only a foot wide, the first blaster bolt was fired. The glowing bolt burned harmlessly on one of the crates. More blaster fire was sent as the entry grew wider and wider. The black armored Mandalorians returned fire sending their shots down at the three guards deployed to the hallway.

The three fired wild unfocussed shots trying to suppress the invaders. Through the hail of blaster fire, the black invaders trained their blasters and shot down the guards, left exposed and vulnerable in the narrow hallway. With a wail, the third guard was downed by a shot to the chest. With the hallway clear, the six invaders left their cover and filed down through the wide open door.

While on the move, one of the black Mandalorians noticed one of the guards still squirming on the floor. She mercilessly stomped on the guard's chest and held him down then fired a shot into his Mandalorian 'T'. The guard's head dropped with a thud on the floor and the invader continued down the hall with her comrades.

With the blast doors already opened, the black invaders burst through into the processing chamber. The air was thick with blaster fire. Bolts of various colors surged from either side of the round chamber. Upon entering, a purple blaster bolt struck an upfront invader in the throat. Meltch watched his comrade collapse, hearing him gurgle in agony as he died slowly.

The chamber didn't provide much for cover. Meltch kept strafing around the room, laying down a constant stream of red blaster fire from his heavy repeater. The guards put up a fight, suppressing the invaders with all they had but stood little chance against the ferocity of the Mandalorians in black.

Occupied with the constant volume of blaster fire from the invaders, they failed to notice the three thermal detonators rolled to their feet. In three consecutive blasts, the detonators threw the guards off their feet. Their armor was charred and smoked from the explosives as they laid crumpled and mangled on the floor.

Meltch directed the invaders to the center of the chamber where the elevator platform awaited. Two of the Mandalorians in black remained in the chamber, posted on opposite sides of the gaping elevator shaft. As the platform descended the fifteen yard shaft, the lights glazed over the dull black plates of the invaders' armor.

Meltch Krakko was no rookie. He'd been conducting high priority missions for more than six years and was one of the coldest, and most dangerous shadow operator among the Mandalorian clans, he never failed on an objective and this raid was as simple to him as running a simulator. As the lift moaned to a stop on the ground level, he sniggered darkly within his black helmet. So this was what the most secure Mandalorian prison had to offer? It seemed there was no real challenge left for him.

The cell block annex was empty and quiet with no guards to feebly attempt to stop them. "Which way?" Meltch inquired into the comlink as they entered the hallway without challenge. After a second's pause, Meltch indicated to the right most passage of the three. One remained as three of the invaders continued to down the hall and came to the cell block entry. The final blast door crept open while the three posted along both walls preparing to breach. With the door wide enough for entry, Meltch moved first, spinning from the wall into the room, scanning the left side with his repeater.

The other two fluidly poured into the cell block, one covering the right side while the third scanned the upper level of walkways. A brown armored Mandalorian guard crouched on the metal walkway and fired a burst of yellow bolts, killing the black armored invader. Meltch quickly redirected his focus, ducking behind the life support system of one of the metal box-like cells. The guard above fired another burst which struck the system which now coughed smoke and sizzled. Meltch stepped from the other side of his cover. He raised his arm and aimed his fist at the guard and with his other hand, pressed a control on his gauntlet firing a wrist mounted rocket. The projectile screeched with a flaring trail of smoke across the room till it impacted on the walkway. The explosion crumpled the metal walkway dropping it from its anchors in the ceiling, taking the guard with it.

The brown armored Mandalorian rolled from the wreckage, still dazed. The second invader approached the motionless guard and rolled her onto her back plate. The guard suddenly kicked the invader hard in the chest then rolled back onto her feet. The invader recovered, leveling his blaster carbine with a snap and firing a single shot. The brown armored guard dodged the bolt which skimmed a mere inch away from Meltch's face. From her gauntlet, the guard bore a vibroblade and attacked the black invader. With his carbine he blocked the attack before striking her helmeted head with the wooden stock of his carbine. She stumbled back, barely stunned but unaware of Meltch who approached from behind. He grasped her by the throat with one hand while stabbing her lower back just below the plate with his dagger in the other.

The guard gasped and struggled to breathe as Meltch withdrew his bloody, serrated blade. Leaving her in her own blood, the two invaders climbed the main stairway. Making his way down the metal walkway, Meltch wiped his bloody dagger on the sleeve of his grey flight suit before sliding it back into the sheath strapped to his chest plate. The two approached the cell to the right in the rear of the block.

"Open the cell," the shadow operator ordered over the comlink. Meltch stood back from the hatch in the roof of the metal box. A red light suddenly flashed green and the hatch opened. The two waited only a moment before Tor Viszla emerged from the entry and clambered out of the cell. He stood tall and broad before the two in black armor.

His long black hair was wild and the stubble on his chin darkened substantially. He grinned maliciously as he stared down Meltch with approval. All was coming together just as he had designed. Jaster Mereel thought he had the upper hand when in all actuality, Tor had always been three steps ahead of him. Tor was more prepared for his cause and was nearly ready to strike. Mereel may have his Prudii Kad to rely on, but Tor had his Death Watch.

"Sir," Meltch grunted with a nod to his commander.

"Very good, Krakko," Tor said. "Now tell that insect to open all the cells in this block," he commanded. Meltch relayed the command to Geren R'hill over the comlink while Tor stepped past them and strode down the central walkway junction.

All ten cell hatches opened with metallic clangs and moments later, four heads cautiously peeked into the light. Tor and his Death Watch watched as the Mandalorian prisoners emerged randomly from the cells. Some were rather lean and wore ragged, baggy flight suits. Their hair was long and beards grew wildly around the muzzle. Others were just as large as Tor, looking about them suspicious of their sudden good fortune. Before long all eyes rested on Tor and his men.

"Brothers," Tor called out. "We all share a common enemy. Whether you're willing to do anything about it will be seen in time. But at this moment, we all have the same goal, to raze this prison to the ground!" he roared and let his voice echo in the cell block. One of the larger prisoners stepped forward, glaring at Tor.

"And who are you?" he demanded.

"The one that decides whether or not your ashes will be left among the ruins of this facility," Tor sneered. The prisoner backed away, still glaring at Tor as he, Meltch and the other Death Watch operator pressed forward. None of the prisoners said anything more as they all made their way to the floor of the cell block. Tor swooped down to retrieve the dead guard's blaster rifle, yanking back the charging bolt as he led them through the remaining two cell blocks, savagely mowing down each awaiting guard.

The processing chamber was in ruins from the firefight between the remaining guards and Death Watch allied with the sixteen Mandalorian prisoners. Knox's entire body felt heavy. His vision was clouded and his ears were filled by the sound of his own slowing heartbeat. Despite the immense weight of his head, he managed to look up and see what had become of his home.

Wires sparked and smoke rose from burning debris. The walls were covered in blast marks and the instability of the prison's power flow caused the lights to pulsate and even at times flicker to darkness. In the corner, his dead family was piled one on top of the other, stripped of their prized weapons and armor.

In the tangling of bodies, Knox spotted a woman with short ginger hair, his wife, Yuri. Her dark brown eyes were wide open, fixing him with a dull lifeless stare. Knox clenched his eyes closed and turned his head away. To his right was his nephew. He was no older than thirteen yet didn't shed a single tear. The boy only let his lip quiver but refused to show any other emotion. Sa'jek would have been proud of his son.

Seven of their clan was still alive and lined up on their knees with seven of the sixteen prisoners standing behind them. They were all encircled by the remaining savage looking prisoners and the majority of the menacing Death Watch operators. Before them all stood Tor Viszla. Knox noticed his niece's blaster rifle rested against the barbarian's shoulder, a sign that Duriah was among the many dead. One of the Death Watch operators approached Viszla as he glared at the captive warden and his guards.

"All weapons and supplies have been gathered and loaded on to the ship, Sir," he reported.

"Very good," Viszla said with a wide grin. He then pointed to Geren with the barrel of the blaster rifle. "You," he called. The Twi'lek Mandalorian approached him with his helmet under his arm, his pale blue skin was dull in the dimness of the lights.

"Yes, Sir?" Geren asked. Tor snapped the blaster rifle back up and shot the Twi'lek without another second's hesitation. Geren's specialized helmet rolled away as he dropped dead on the floor, a smoking hole in his chest.

"You've outlived your usefulness to me." Tor stepped over Geren's body, redirecting his attention back on his helpless, broken captives. "Let this be a sign to all Mandalorians," he said with a sharp, broad voice. "If you swear loyalty to Jaster Mereel, then you show that you are weak and unworthy to call yourself 'Manda.' We will spread across all territories to every clan and offer a chance to our brethren to redeem themselves. This is the same chance that I offer all of you. Join my Death Watch and fight to bring down Mereel and those that dare serve him. We will raise our people to greater power than ever before. The choice is yours, join us, or die." No one spoke a word. The prisoners grinned and sneered maliciously but none of the guards dared look up from the floor. Knox glared back at Viszla. Through his swollen eyelids.

"None of us will ever join you, dar'manda," said a voice from among the guards. Looking down his left, Knox spotted his sister Reeda, recognizing her voice, weakened from pain. Her face was smeared with blood and struggled to keep one swollen eye open. Seeing the courage of both his nephew and sister, Knox couldn't help but feel proud, even on the worst day of his life.

"You?" he laughed. "Your carcasses are the sign. The offer is not for you," Tor said. He turned away from the line up and started towards the hallway to the hanger. "Take your time," he added over his shoulder. The prisoners all closed around Knox and his family, laughing with anticipation.


	14. PART 3: Chapter 14

PART 3

Gargon was a filthy planet, both inside and out. The green hued sky was constantly blanketed in grey clouds, an effect from generations of ravaging the planet with mines and refineries. Despite the illness of the planet and its atmosphere, it was one of the more populated worlds in the Mandalore Sector. Not a single decent person could be found on the surface. The filth of the world drew a whole assortment of scum and lowlifes. The only market offered was an enterprising black market where dealers inflated prices to despicable heights, a common cause to Gargon's shockingly high murder rate. There was no real law, only strong arm enforcers of the more powerful players in the criminal world. Drogo was a name that for the past decade had become more and more commonly spoken.

Rumors surrounded it like flies to a stink. Some said that he was a droid that was long overdue for a memory wipe, a task that no one dared to try. Others said he was a beardless Thisspiasian or even a rogue Hutt that abandoned the cartel long ago. Frankly, Rav Bralor didn't care. She would find out soon enough when she got close enough for the kill, though a sluggish Hutt was far easier to kill than a giant, spineless snake with reflexes faster than even a Jedi Knight.

The job was what had drawn her to Jarul, another world within the Gargon System, and the supposed base of operations for Drogo, but it only took a single transmission to divert her attention to Gargon. Hours ago, her fellow operator, Walon Vau had called in a favor, as one of the Prudii Kad, Rav had no choice but to drop everything and come through for him, duty always came first, no matter how many credits were on the line. According to Walon, a freighter was docked somewhere in a small establishment on Gargon called Verret Tel. Mandalorians weren't necessarily a rare sight on Gargon but a large gathering of them was bound to draw suspicious eyes. It was easy for Rav to spot them, their black armor was conspicuous among the drab cloaks worn by most that loitered about Verret Tel. A gathering of more than fifteen armored figures waited near an alley, their numbers pouring out into the street.

Rav watched from the mount of her swoop bike as it all happened. She was parked in the shadows of an alley as she watched two speeders approach from down the street. Two Mandalorians clad in black were on board the lead speeder while one was sat behind the controls of the second. Rav frowned from behind her black helmet. Walon's intel described around eight men, all members of Clan Viszla. The men standing in the street though adorning black, traditional armor, wore markings and symbols representing other clans.

One of the men leapt from the passenger's seat and removed his helmet, allowing his long thin black hair to fall freely behind his shoulders. Based from Walon's description of a lean man with a high forehead and hooked nose; and the holo recording he sent her, Rav recognized Pert Jerok easily. Jerok approached the front most Mandalorian in the gathering and clasped wrists in in greeting. For a moment, the two stood on the street corner and talked before finally, leading Mandalorian looked back at his men and waved his arm, beckoning them to follow. The gathering all boarded the troop transports, sitting on the edge of the craft with their feet dangling over the ground as the speeders sped away down the street.

Rav kicked the ignition pedal on her swoop which roared to life as she pulled out from the shadows of the alley and followed from a far with a trail of dust in her wake. Walon didn't tell her much about these men, only that they were members of Clan Viszla and recently left the moon Concordia with enough unidentified cargo to fill a freighter. Why these men were of interest to the Prudii Kad was beyond her, though the gathering of numbers such as she just witnessed was most likely worth looking into. From ahead, the speeders slowed as they approached a public docking bay. Rav broke away from the pursuit turning down into another alley. Her mandate didn't require her to go any further, but her findings were certainly worth report to Walon.


	15. Chapter 15

Jaster's briefing to the men seemed to tide them over in the meantime. There was still murmuring in the halls of the frigate, questions and whispers that some preferred to keep amongst very select groups within the twenty-eight Mandalorian mercenaries on board. Some wondered what there was to be concerned over, Clan Viszla was just one clan, as the Mand'alor had many at his command. Though others that had been around far longer decided not to question Jaster's judgement. Clan Viszla was more than just one clan, it was one of the oldest and fiercest of the Mandalorian clans and not to be underestimated. For more than three days now, the frigate sat deep in space in the epicenter of the Mandalore Sector.

Not much had been seen of Jaster Mereel since he addressed the men about the actions of Tor Viszla and the concerns over his clan. But Montross knew just where to find him. The young, broad Mandalorian stepped through the door into the blue glow of the tactical displays in the ops center. Standing quietly with his large arms crossed over his silver chest plating was Hos. The silver haired Mandalorian veteran looked tired, though not nearly as worn out as the Mand'alor. Jaster stood, supporting his weight on the control panels' surface as he listened to the report of the hologram projection beside him. From the projector of an obsolete, specially modified T20 utility droid stood the hazy blue image of a woman. Though her black helmet covered her face, Montross didn't recognize her. Her voice was easy to listen to, even a bit playful, he could tell she had a bit of a wild side. Her form was sturdy and sleek with a grey kama gird about her waist and two blaster pistols strapped to her hips. Jaster paid Montross no mind as he continued to listen closely to her report.

"He wasn't able to get the final destination out of him, but managed to extract one of the freighter's stops, Gargon."

"That cesspool?" Hos scoffed. "I'd bet my shiniest credit that's where they are."

"As I said, according to my man, Gargon is just a stop," the hologram of Naja Lovac reasserted.

"He could be wrong. It could be a ploy to keep us searching," Jaster suggested.

"Not my man," Naja said coolly. Montross stood in the back, listening in though unsure of what was being discussed. Eyeing the hologram closely, Jaster nodded as he stood up straight.

"All right then," he said in agreement. "But I want eyes on Gargon."

"Already done," Naja said. "My man on Concordia briefed one of my operators already in the system."

"So now we're taking the word of shadow operators?" scoffed Hos again. Naja turned her head to focus on the Mandalorian, placing her hands on her hips as she glared at him from behind her helmet.

"To hell with you, Brenth!" she snapped at him darkly. "You couldn't get within a sandcrawler's length of half of the targets my operators can work!"

"Stow it, both of you!" Jaster barked, fixing them with a stern stare. "Hos," he said as he looked back at the veteran with a slightly softened expression. "I trust Naja's intel, and you will too." Montross watched as Hos' beady, hazel eyes flicked from the hologram back to Jaster.

"Yes, Mand'alor," he said in a hushed tone. Jaster nodded silent gratitude for the veteran's unwavering loyalty. He turned away from the holo projections and now faced his men in the room.

"Back to the matter at hand. Viszla's compound has been demilitarized and his second in command is making a stop on Gargon with a cache of weapons, rations and medical supplies, enough to outfit a whole division." Jaster suddenly felt hot under the color of his armor. He sighed to recompose himself before continuing. "On top of all that, I haven't had contact with Geren R'hill or anyone from Holmuroth for days." He paused in mid thought, shaking his head as he stared off to nowhere. "I have a bad feeling about this, he muttered to himself." Both Hos and Montross exchanged a look of uncertainty, neither of them had before seen Jaster Mereel look so vulnerable. Montross was just relieved that they were all away from the rest of the men. The situation as it is, was already unstable. Small cliques within the mercenaries exchanged their ideological views in hushed tones, some of which Montross found disturbing. Before the Mandalorian could think on it any further, a series of beeps sounded from the corner of the room. Montross looked to the communications terminal where a small light flashed on and off in accordance to the alerting sound.

"Jaster, you just received a message," Montross reported.

"From who?" he inquired. Montross shook his head as he read the display.

"Unknown," he said. The Mand'alor straightened his stance and crossed his arms over his grey armored chest.

"Playback the transmission," he ordered with a nod. With the press of a button, the projector pedestal hummed to life, emitting a single blue image. A dark figure stood broad with pride, clad in Mandalorian armor. From behind his helmet projected a dark, heavy voice.

"Jaster Mereel, we are Death Watch. We are the future of the Mandalorians."

"That sounds like Viszla," Hos observed. Jaster knew it wasn't. For days now his mind had been haunted by the voice of the dark Mandalorian. He could've easily pick out Tor's brash timbre from a crowd. But the words, Jaster knew without a doubt they were his.

"Its not," Jaster replied as he continued to listen.

"For days now we have spread through Mandalorian space, rallying the truly faithful. Your reign is over." Suddenly the image pulled back revealing a sight that made Jaster's stomach constrict. Four more darkly clad Mandalorians stood guard behind four captives forced to their knees. Jaster stared at their image, they were bleeding, broken and mere inches from death. He knew them personally, recognizing their clan markings and faces. It was a family of Devaronians. The father was both one of the fiercest wielders of a double bladed vibro-staff and most hospitable being Jaster had ever met. Lined up to his left was the Devaronian's wife, son and young daughter. "Clan Sornell is only one of the many examples of your fate." The four Mandalorians standing guard backed away from the captive Devaronians and leveled their arms. Jaster watched in horror as jets of flame burst from their wrists and engulfed the screaming family.

"Fierfek!" Montross growled. Hos shook his head in disgust as flames lit in his beady eyes.

"Sons of banthas," he grumbled.

"Come and avenge your people, Mereel. Death Watch will be waiting." The ops center went silent. The thrum of the frigate's systems almost seemed deafening to their ears. Shock and anger hung over Hoss, Montross and Naja like a fog. They were all speechless. One by one, they managed to tear their gaze's away from the despicable figure of the one that called himself Death Watch. They all looked to their Mand'alor. During the message, he had drifted forward, closer to the terminal. His back was to them, his shaking figure shrouded beneath his maroon cape. He watched it all happen, even if the others didn't see it. In the few moments that the family had left, he'd made the most daring move Jaster had ever seen. It didn't matter that it made no difference, it was a father's last act of protection to his family. Jaster had watched as the Devaronian had huddled his family together, shrouding them with his reaching arms from the flames of inevitability. It was the act of a true Mandalorian. The Mand'alor's hand balled into a fist at his side. Rage pulsated through his veins and there was no holding back any longer. He turned to face his men, his glaring eyes burning. Hos flinched under the scrutinizing stare, this was not the same Jaster Mereel he had known for the last decade.

"Naja," he said with a shaken voice. "Gather your men, go to Harswee, recovery op for Holmuroth," he ordered.

"Consider it done, Jaster," Naja said before fazing away. The glow of her hologram left the dullness of the ops center.

"Hos, rally the men, we're going to Concord Dawn."


	16. Chapter 16

Wiping the grease and grime off of his large hands with a rag, Broden grumbled darkly under his breath. His home was warm and the air wafted with a zesty aroma from the kitchen. In the midst of his frustration, his other senses took over, guiding him through the house to where the scent of dinner was coming from. Stepping through the entryway of the dining room, his wife looked up at him as she hunched over the table to set a bowl. Iella watched her husband warily with large green eyes.

"Damn harvester won't start. Its never easy is it," he muttered aloud. Iella sighed as she stood up and moved to another spot, setting another bowl.

"So you'll fix it tomorrow," she said in as cheery tone as she could. "Both you and Jango can start nice and early."

"Assuming nothing calls me away," he grunted. "Skedge sent out an alert from his zone. Apparently there was a squabble this morning." Broden's wife frowned with concern.

"What was it?" she inquired.

"Don't know. It was those Mandalorians and we don't bother with them," he replied. "I'll say this now though, they cross over into my zone, I won't just stand by."

Iella grinned slightly as she set the last bowl down with care then limped over to her husband with labored steps. Rubbing his large arms she looked up at him in adoration. Despite his flaws, she was always entranced by his sense of duty as a Journeyman Protector. Broden was a stern law man, keeping his zone in check, a feat that couldn't be done by any pushover or coward. However uneasy it made her, Iella knew that he meant what he said, that was the man that he now was, the man she loved.

"Leave tomorrow for tomorrow," she smiled. "Come and have a seat, dinner's ready." She said as she ushered him to the chair at the head of the table.

"Thought I smelled something good," Broden said. "What is it?"

"No clue," Iella said as she continued to set down utensils beside the four plates positioned on the table. "Arla cooked it herself. She wouldn't let me anywhere near the kitchen this evening." Broden hummed absently. Despite the warmth of his wife's mood, he couldn't turn away from the many distractions in his mind.

"Okay, its ready!" shouted a young voice from inside the neighboring kitchen. At that moment, a young, dark haired boy no more than eight years old bounded from the kitchen. Behind him, his fourteen year old sister followed. Despite her petite shape, she hefted a large, steaming pot with no trouble to the center of the dining room.

"What do you have there, Arla?" Iella asked.

"Meengrin stew," the girl answered softly as she spooned a ladle full of the steaming green substance into each bowl.

"Well isn't that great." Iella smiled at her daughter, turning to see whether Broden felt just as proud. He still scowled as he stared off, distracted with thought, again answering with an absent hum. Arla timidly reached for his bowl pouring the stew then placing it back in front of her father.

"Thank you," he mumbled his appreciation as he watched he continue to serve the family, filling her own bowl last.

"And Jango, what did you do?" Iella said, turning to her son.

"Nothing," the boy shrugged. "I don't cook." Broden stared down his son from across the table.

"Maybe not, but you help your mother and sister," he said sternly. "You hear me, boy?" Jango's head stooped low but didn't dare break eye contact. Rock solid stubbornness was a trait of their mother's that Arla didn't inherit but Jango was filled with it. Even under the powerful sternness of his father, Jango was never one to back down easy.

"Broden, Jango did help," Iella said with a defensive yet calm tone. "I saw him carrying cornlett pods from the fields earlier." Broden looked from his wife to his son.

"Good," he nodded. Broden grasped his spoon in his paw-like hand and ate his stew. In the homestead of their farm on the planet Concord Dawn, the Fetts sat to dinner.


	17. Chapter 17

From the serenity of space, the Mandalorian frigate suddenly appeared just out of orbit from the brown world of Concord Dawn. From the open bay of the large craft, three Meteor class Q-Carriers sped to towards the planet below, bursting through the atmosphere in a blaze. Inside each carrier, a squad of Mandalorian mercenaries were rocked on their feet from the turbulent descent. Fully clad in his grey armor, Jaster stood solidly behind the pilot and copilot of his dropship. Watching as they approached the planet, his mind's focus was split in two.

Seeing the world again after a length of more than ten years brought memories to mind. Concord Dawn had been his home, where he grew into the man he now was. He knew he wasn't welcome there, not after killing his Journeyman Protector in cold blood. But nothing would keep him from his obligations as Mand'alor. It was those thoughts that occupied the forefront of his mind. Jaster wasn't entirely sure what he'd find down on the surface. Already he accepted the worst for Clan Sornell, he'd learned long ago to not waste his hopes on a lost cause. Since receiving the message, he'd watched the recording over and over again. The execution of the Devaronian family was ruthlessness at its peak. These Mandalorians calling themselves Death Watch were nothing but vile murderers and he would bring them to justice. Jaster keyed his comlink in his helmet as he watched the plains far below. Up in the far distance, he could barely depict the silhouette of a cityscape in the dull, pale orange sky.

"Montross, ready the men," he ordered. From behind, he heard the gruff Mandalorian in silver and blue bark orders to the six armored mercenaries on board. Across the channels, Jaster heard the order echoed through each of the three ships by his appointed squad leaders. Hos Brenth barked at his six men aboard the right flanking carrier. In command of the left detachment was Pol Gedyc, a shrewd Falleen with an indescribable affinity for command. She easily kept those in her unit in line, Jaster had a feeling that would come in handy. Among her squad was Lynn Kreol, standing closest to the boarding ramp in the rear of the troop deck.

For the past few days, Lynn had lingered silently among the company of mercenaries. He'd heard a lot in that time, whispers and speculations. Much was said by the Mandalorians and to him, it didn't seem that there was a majority on either end. Lynn didn't know enough about Tor Viszla to sway his stance but what he did know was that he didn't want to end up on the wrong side of the fence when the blasters started. There was one lure however to taking a stance, Montross. The two had been like brothers since their adoptions into the clans and Montross was Jaster's man. Lynn only wished he could be as solid.

The Mand'alor watched as the ships slowly approached the city far ahead. Suddenly a notification blinked on Jaster's HUD. "Open message," he said within the privacy of his helmet. In the lower half of his view, a thin box appeared with a scroll of text.

 _Holmuroth is dead. We searched the entire facility, found no survivors. Obvious signs of attack. Sliced computers, no data. No ID on escapees. Attached images of bodies found._

"Open link, Jaster muttered. A morbid feeling engulfed the Mand'alor as images of his people, broken, burned and mutilated appeared before his eyes. Knox and the Warden's family had received the worse of it. These murders were no executions, they were torturous, drawn out for as long as the captives' hearts till beat, and then some. Naja's report said there was no sign of whom broken out. Holmuroth didn't keep records of that sort, they didn't have to. Jaster knew the name of each and every prisoner they had held. As he thought of each one, he saw their faces and the horrors they had committed. Jaster shuttered with the thought of them walking free. "I should have killed them," he grumbled to himself. "Tor Viszla, I will kill you for this." Another image appeared that suddenly caught Jaster's attention. He recognized the red plated armor instantly though the one wearing it was a complete and utter stranger to him.

The face wasn't human, let alone that of a Twi'lek. The alien's complexion was grey and rough. Two bulbous, dull yellow eyes stared blankly without life above a flat, round nose set in a hollow, sunken face. As well traveled as the Mand'alor was, Jaster didn't recognize this rather unaesthetic species.

"Hos," Jaster called over the com. "Just got Naja's report, it's not good."

"Didn't think it would be," Hos replied through bursts of static. "Seems our long range coms have interference," he grumbled. Jaster ignored him, the image was far more pressing on his mind than some static in the coms.

"What can you tell me about this image?" he asked. Over their armor's interlinking system, Jaster sent the image to him in the other ship. He waited, paying little attention to the bustle from behind of his men.

"Chizk," Hos cursed through the static. "That's Geren R'hill's kit, but that's a Clawdite wearing it." The name to Jaster was just as unfamiliar to him as the face.

"Repeat that?" he said.

"Clawdite, Jaster. They're shapeshifters from the Mid-rim," Hos explained. Realization hit Jaster like a ton of bricks and let more questions grow in his mind like the roots from a planted seed. Did Geren ever make it to Holmuroth? Was it Geren that he even sent in the first place? As pressing as they seemed, Jaster found that his mind suppressed the thoughts back. Focusing on one was not a luxury the Mand'alor could afford with the fate of hundreds on the line.

Jaster was suddenly yanked out from his own head by a flash of red light. Giant bolts sailed through the air directly towards their ships.

"Anti-air fire!" Announced the Mandalorian copilot.

"Evasive maneuvers!" barked the pilot beside him. The Q-Carriers banked, veering from the paths of the trails of turbo lasers as they soared over the city-line border.

"Lock in back there!" Jaster growled over his shoulder. As he braced himself in the entryway to the cockpit, the seven mercenaries in his squad did what they could in the open space of the troop deck, holding fast to the cargo netting overhead. The ships pushed forward in the storm of cannon fire but the sheer volume was too much. The Q-Carrier to the right in the formation was rocked by an explosion as a bolt skimmed the underside of the craft. Rocking wildly, it began to descend rapidly through the air to within the far edge of the city below with a trail of smoke billowing from behind.

"We've been hit," Hos announced coolly over the platoon wide channel. "Our shields took the brunt of it, but we're fried."

"Fierfek," Jaster muttered within his helmet as he watched Second Squad's dropship dive to the ground. His focus was fixed like a laser on the crashing carrier, he hadn't even noticed the sudden calm in the skies.

"The lasers, they stopped," Montross observed.

"Swing back around," Jaster ordered to his pilot. Both First and Third Squad's carriers circled back around, soaring above the careening third carrier. The Meteor-Class Q-Carrier's extremely sturdy and blunt form hit the ground hard in an explosion of dust and smoke, bounding over the open street by the immense force of impact. The dull, curved bow skid on the ground, tearing into the earth as the smoking craft grinded to a hazardous stop. "Hos, sitrep," Jaster said over the com. Through the static, Hos' voice came through muddled but very alive.

"Ship's bust but we're still standing." Relief flooded over Montross as he heard Hos' gruff voice.

"Third Squad, set down and secure Second's crash site," Jaster ordered.

"Yes, Mand'alor," Pol Gedyc replied with a bristly tone.

"Set her down in the square," Jaster said to the pilot. The two ships engaged their landing gear, like four stubby legs extending from the corners of the underside. The ships eased to the street surface, facing outward as they set down around the downed carrier. With gusts of steam, the cabin of the carriers depressurized and the ramps lowered. Filing out of each ship, the two squads, encircled the down craft, mingling with Second squad whom had already stepped out of their ship. Stepping from the foot of the ramp onto the street, Jaster glanced about scanning the vacant buildings and rooftops. There wasn't a sign of occupying life anywhere to be seen. His stomach constricted, again his gut was speaking to him.

"Montross, stay frosty, I don't like this."

"That makes two," the young Mandalorian in silver muttered over the com. As he cautiously approached Hos, Jaster kept his blaster rifle firm in his grasp.

"We're still ten clicks out from Clan Sornell," Hos said, pointing off to the east with his heavy repeater.

"Death Watch wants us here," Jaster observed out loud. His gaze carried from the streets to the rooftops above. A glare of the sun flared suddenly and a red blaster bolt streaked through the air. "Down!" he growled. Both he and Hos dove to the ground, rolling into cover behind the downed carrier. More blaster fire erupted from the roof tops, raining down on the exposed Mandalorians below.

"Contact, up above!" called out Pol Gedyc sharply across the coms.

"Contact, in the alleys, three o'clock!" Montross roared. He stood from his cover and fired his snub rifle. From the shadows of the surrounding alleyways, Death Watch soldiers fired away at the trapped mercenaries. After letting off a shot, Jaster ducked back into cover as a burst of blaster bolts sailed above his head. Crouched low, he suddenly felt the street rumble beneath him. He peeked from his cover spotting the cloud of dust crawling towards them from down the lane like an avalanche.

"Chizk," Hos growled. "They got a tank."


	18. Chapter 18

The treaded monster of war ground to a halt. It was hard for Montross to tell which side ceased firing first but to his and his comrades' surprise it did. Smoke and echoes of in the vacancy of the city square was all that filled the air thickened with tension between the mercenaries and Death Watch. Montross stood boldly from his cover, glaring at the tank, his sharp stare fixed on the red claw-like symbol stenciled on the front. The gun turret hatch was thrown open with a loud clang then a large figure clad in black armor climbed onto the top of the tank. His frame was menacing with his tattered red cape flourishing in the breeze like the shroud of a ghost. Worn across his back was a vibrosword housed in a black scabbard. With large, black gloved hands, he removed his helmet.

"Jaster Mereel!" Tor Viszla roared to the square. The silence shattered with his hoarse echoing voice. Jaster's hand tightened on his blaster rifle and his heart suddenly pumped with the adrenaline that frequent battle no longer supplied. He sat behind the cover of the downed ship with Hos still at his side. "You should have killed me when we last met," Tor said.

"Appreciate the second chance," Jaster shouted back.

"You had your chance, Mereel. Now I will kill you and take the title of Mand'alor." Jaster looked around from the protection of his cover, spotting the surrounding Death Watch soldiers. Their weapons were cradled in their arms. Jaster's men in the heat of the battle had were suppressed into the square, taking cover behind stone pillars and the remains of a shattered fountain. From what Jaster could see, Death Watch had closed in around them. His mind raced as every possible course of action seemed to wither before his eyes.

"They won't follow you," Jaster growled. Heads turned among the Mandalorians, their faces and intentions masked by their helmets.

"Wont they now?" Tor scoffed. "Do our people even know what I offer? Wealth, conquest, power. The power of the galaxy within their very hands," he exclaimed with greed alit in his eyes. "Mandalore will be the center of the galaxy, to be Mandalorian will mean to be royalty. All wrongs will be amended, starting with the pacifists that dare call themselves Mandalorians." He paused, scanning his gaze across the mercenaries all huddled together in the square. "That is what I offer to you all," he said with a sweep of his arm. "Otherwise, you will all burn with this pretender!" Jaster suddenly felt the weighted gazes of his men.

"You claim to fight for the people, yet you massacred an entire clan!" Jaster growled.

"More than one," Viszla retorted with a smirk. "They were weak and to live is for the strong, for the Manda!" Jaster's heart beat even harder, nearly pounding dents in his chest plate. "Like them, Mereel, you are no Mandalorian." The mercenaries all shifted behind their cover, clearly now feeling the weight of their armor and the tension in the thick, dusty air. All around them, Death Watch soldiers stared down the sights of their blasters.

From the scrambled mix of the three squads, a single Mandalorian clad in dark navy armor stepped out from behind a pillar. Hunkered down beside the mercenary, Lynn Kreol watched as he took bold steps away from the square with his weapon held at his side. One by one, more stood out in the open and walked away from the gathering, melting into the growing ranks of Death Watch. Pol Gedyc holstered her blaster pistol as stood up tall. With lanky armored legs, she walked briskly away.

A Mandalorian clad in yellow plating pressed herself against the cover of a pillar. Another stepped out from behind the same pillar, starting across the square. Enraged, she threw her fist, punching the traitor in his helmeted face with a loud metallic clang. The Mandalorian stumbled slightly then drew his blaster pistol, aimed at the mercenary in yellow as he slowly backed away. Still huffing with anger, she felt the hand of a comrade rest on her shoulder, pulling her back and nodding towards her armored chest, pinpointed by the laser sights of anxious Death Watch soldiers.

As more stood up and strode out of the square, Jaster suddenly stood out from behind the downed dropship, hands empty and resting at his side. From atop the tank, Tor scoffed with amusement. Jaster's resolve snapped, followed quickly by his pistols from their holsters. In a single fluid move, his blasters panned across the square, trigger squeezing at each of the Mandalorians standing in defiance. Three went down instantly without so much as a yelp while two more stumbled back from newly inflicted wounds. "Kill them all!" Tor shouted. A hail of blaster fire rained down Jaster's force of fifteen remaining mercenaries. They didn't wait for the Mand'alor's order, unleashing their responsive fire. Hos leaned from cover, laying down a stream of suppressive fire as Jaster clambered back behind cover. A number of Jaster's troops darted between cover charging at their enemies and tackling them to the ground. The battle was a mess, a fight with two fronts. Upfront, Death Watch soldiers and Jaster's Mandalorian mercenaries clashed up close with fists and blades while in the rear, the Mand'alor's forces struggled to suppress the soldiers from closing in on them from afar. Tor sneered as he looked down upon the battle then leapt into the fray. From a scabbard on his back, Viszla drew a jagged, serrated sword. Tor grabbed the first mercenary he came across and plunged his vicious blade into his gut. Throwing the dead Mandalorian aside, he pressed forward.

In the corner of Montross' eye, he spotted two more of his comrades drop dead from sniper fire on the rooftops above. Their positioning was wide open to the blaster fire of their opponents' superior vantage points. For them to stand fast in the square any longer was mere suicide, whether Jaster could see this through his rage, Montross couldn't be sure.

Jaster had managed to move from the downed dropship to a position among the ruins of the water fountain. He emerged from cover again, scanning downrange, picking off two more Death Watch with his blaster rifle. Peering down his sights, through the dust and haze of battle, Jaster spotted his prey. The large figure of Tor Viszla seemed to dwarf the Mandalorian that he throttled with his bare hands. Viszla was the only combatant bold enough to walk into battle without his helmet. No enhanced sighting, no HUD, no radar, just pure adrenaline powered savagery. It almost seemed a shame for Jaster to just end him then and there when all the Mand'alor could imagine was giving the madman a slow, torturous death akin to the atrocious massacres done to his people, justice would be served. Jaster squeezed the trigger of his blaster rifle, ready for the recoil to kick into the soft part of his shoulder. Click. The rifle remained still with no flare of energy firing from the muzzle.

"Blast!" Jaster growled. He dug through the pouches on his belt for another spare power cell. Already he had used his spare and had given the other to one of his men. He threw down his rifle and drew one of his pistols from its holster.

"Jaster," Montross called through the comlink. "We can't hold out like this any longer!"

"Keep up the pressure on our six," Jaster growled, ignoring him completely as he peeked over his cover.

"The kid's right," Hos grunted. The veteran Mandalorian primed a thermal detonator and lobbed it to an alley occupied with a fireteam of Death Watch soldiers making a strong push on their dwindling defenses. "Jaster we can't keep this up much longer." Jaster still crouched behind cover could feel the pounding of blaster fire on the outside of the stone barrier that barely stood between them. He peeked over the top, spotting Viszla again. Suddenly a wail of pain sounded from Jaster's right. One of his men laid sprawled on the ground with a smoking blastpoint dead center of his Mandalorian 'T' eyeplate. Time slowed to a crawl as he gazed about, watching his men huddle close to cover to avoid the lethal volume of blaster fire. His blood suddenly slowed and he could no longer hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Rage relinquished its grip on his mind and his own self took over again, he could no longer argue with logic. A poorly thrown Thermal Detonator exploded outside of Jaster's cover but the concussive sound knocked him back into the moment at hand.

"Jaster, do you read me!"

"Copy, Hos," Jaster responded. Still in position behind the downed dropship, Hos looked right at him. Tossed aside was his spent heavy repeater, now instead armed with his own snub rifle.

"We need to break their line," Hos shouted over the blaster fire. Jaster looked back over his shoulder, spotting three of his men equipped with Z-6 jetpacks.

"Dreznor, Wade, Tenau," he barked over the comlink. "Hit the southwest side with your rockets!" The three turned away from their engagements while Jaster and Montross jumped from cover and took over. Dreznor and Wade stood side by side with Cin Tenau clad in yellow armor in the middle. Along with the others, she bowed, low using her rangefinder mounted on her helmet to aim at a cluster of Death Watch soldiers.

"Rocket out!" said Wade. Plumes of fire burst from the exhaust vents on the bottom of their jetpacks as the mounted missiles fired from the launching stalk on the top. Three trails of smoke soared from the square to just outside of an alleyway where the Death Watch soldiers took position. The explosions decimated their enemies and further weakened the structure of the buildings. They shook as their foundations crumbled and large chunks of debris fell. Now was their chance.

"Mandalorians, this is Jaster Mereel," Jaster called over the com. "Fall back. Scatter and stay low. Do not attempt to make contact, I will find you. Now I speak to the traitors," Jaster said sharply with a dark tone. "I'll see you in hell." Jaster cut the transmission then stood from cover firing his pistol wildly to suppress Death Watch's fire as he backed away from the battle. Jaster's men had turned and made a mad dash to the break in Death Watch's line. Cin Tenau started out near the front of the retreat. Just before disappearing into the ruins of the alley, she noticed an advance of from the left side. She stopped and leveled her arm, firing a jet of flame from her gauntlet. Few of the darkly clad Mandalorians crumpled and twitched in the flames, screaming in agony while their comrades ducked for cover, still feeling the lick of the fire's heat. Grinning, Cin continued down the alley. Jaster followed Montross and Hos as he fell in with the retreat and just behind him was Lynn Kreol.

Standing at the mouth of the alley, Tor Viszla watched as the remaining force of nine Mandalorians made their retreat. He glared at his foe clad in grey armor over an olive drab flight suit. He'd called Jaster a coward before but never before could he imagine the 'honorable Mand'alor' to turn and run.

"You can't escape me, Jaster! I'll burn all your hiding places to the ground and execute anyone who helps you!" He roared. "And when you have nowhere left to run, I'll have your head!" Tor watched as his prey disappeared into the towering stalks of a crop field and the tall grass plains of Concord Dawn. Behind him, his Death Watch gathered and awaited his orders. The hunt had begun.


	19. Chapter 19

Cin didn't look behind her but could hear the rustle of grass of her comrades following her trail. They broke away to the east of the burning city while another group pushed on to the north. Relentlessly, she sprinted through the plains, desperate to put as many miles as she could between her and Death Watch's search parties. Within her helmet, her heavy breaths were loud and she felt the sweat crawl from her forehead down her nose. It was a hot day under Concord Dawn's radiant sun and her suit's internal thermostat system seemed to be malfunctioning.

"Chizk," she panted. Just ahead, the field dipped drastically to the bank of a river. Still running at full speed, she leapt down, landing inches away from the river bank. Falling, backwards, she laid against the steep side of the hill. One by one, another four of her comrades dropped to her sides. They were all panting, their shoulders rising with every labored breath.

"Lets just hold here for a moment, Wade Cadera grunted as he rested his hands on his knees. Cin looked at the Mandalorian in brown armor, noting the scorched burn on the sleeve of his dark red flight suit.

"You've were hit," she observed. Wade glanced at his bicep just below the hem of his flak vest.

"Just a skim," he said as he stood up straight. Cin turned to a large Mandalorian to her right. His dark blue armor plating sported sharp, black shapes, a recreation of her Iridonian husband's tribal tattoos. Similarly, her Mandalorian 'T' was surrounded by markings, recreating her own markings as a Mirialan. Looking down at his wife, Dreznor's and Cin's helmets touched.

"I'm relieved you're alright," he said to her over a private com.

"Ditto," she said with a smirk. A Mandalorian clad in orange and green plates climbed back up the hill, peaking over its cap through the tall grass plains.

"We can't stay here," he said.

"Right," Wade acknowledged. "Let's see who's here," he added under his breath. "Cin, Dreznor, good. Gax and Ar'jae. Alright, we need a plan," Wade grunted. Cin parted her attention from her husband and looked out over the bank to the hills ahead.

"In these plains, we're sitting ducks and I don't know of any nearby towns," Cin said. "Our best option for tonight is the hills."

"I saw them, probably ten clicks out," Gax said in a sharp, sly voice.

"We need to move," Ar'jae interrupted with his focus still watching the plains behind them. Wade ignored him and continued his train of thought.

"I agree we need shelter for the night but we also need to get off this rock, rally with the frigate and await Mand'alor's orders." Few heads looked about the group of five waiting for a suggestion.

"Two of our Q-carriers were still functioning," Gax said. "I'll double back for reconnaissance then meet back at the hills." There was no protest from any of the four, though none were fully comfortable with the plan.

"Alright," Wade said. "Remember, keep radio silence and stay low." Gax gave no sign of acknowledgment as he turned away. All eyes watched as the Mandalorian in grey armor clambered back up the hill and crept back into the tall grass plains.

Dreznor shook his head as he watched Gax go.

"I don't like it."

"What?" Wade inquired.

"He's an Umbaran," Dreznor explain. "As slimy as a Hutt."

"Have a little faith in our Vod," Wade said, hoping to put their minds at ease but Dreznor only scoffed.

"Your bucket's on too tight. Half of our 'vod' just stabbed us in the back," Dreznor exclaimed hotly. In all the years Cin knew him, he'd always had the shortest temper of a Zabrak. Oddly enough, it was one of her draws to him.

"Drez, Gax stuck with Mand'alor, for now we can trust him," Cin said, placing her hand on his broad shoulder. Dreznor looked from her back to Wade, standing his ground at the edge of the bank.

"For now," he muttered.

"Hey, we're bound to have Death Watch crawling up our shebs at any moment now!" Ar'jae blurted impatiently. Wade nodded his way then waded through the river only reaching just above his kneecaps.

"Alright, lets move," he said waving his arm in a sign for them to follow. One by one they crossed the river then started through the plains again at a solid run. Their suits dried in moments as the four pressed towards the hill ahead.


	20. Chapter 20

Night had come to Concord Dawn and all seemed to be quiet and content but Broden Fett didn't allow himself to ease down a single bit. His day had started early, as does the day of any farmer. Starting out in the fields, Broden had barely started work on the broken down harvester before his fourteen year old daughter had crept behind him with the news of a call on the coms terminal. The Journeyman Protector, Skedge had been frantic on the transmission but the message was clear, all Protectors were on high alert. Broden had wondered why they even bothered since the Protectors often turned a blind eye towards Mandalorian activity, but Fett took the call very seriously. Skedge's zone was just north of his own and he wasn't about to let the barbarians get away with anything.

As the Journeyman, Broden had a detachment of subordinates, all of whom he'd ordered on standby. It was only a matter of time, he could feel it. Still clad in his armor, Broden sat in the chair on the porch of his homestead, watching over the ripe heads of his crops. His sharp brown eyes peered through the haze of smoke seeping from his mouth.

The cigarra pinched in his tense fingers oddly helped sooth the rest of his muscles from the aggravations of the wasted day. With the harvest merely days away, he made hardly any progress in preparing for it. Even as a Journeyman of the Protectors, the pay was poor for every honest man. His family depended on him for support and his crops were all he had. It was safe to say, Broden needed the little bit of relaxation he felt from smoking.

From behind, he heard the patter of bare feet approach the open doorway. A small shadow filled the light from inside the house, but Broden didn't notice, still lost in deep thought.

"Dad, Mom says its bedtime but I'm not tired yet. Can I stay up a bit longer?" Broden looked over his shoulder to find his eight year old son leaning out the doorway, his large brown eyes wide open as he awaited his answer.

"Jango, listen to your Mother, go to bed," Broden said in a stern tone. Another shadow slightly taller snuck behind Jango's.

"You heard him," Iella said as she ushered their son from the doorway. "Now get upstairs." Muttering under his breath, Jango shuffled down away with Iella's watchful gaze following him up the stairs. She then turned to her husband watching with a look of concern.

"And what about you? Are you coming inside?" she inquired.

"I will, not yet," he said distantly.

"Okay, don't stay too long," she said, touching his shoulder before stepping back through the doorway, still leaving the door wide open. Broden's gaze still lingered in the empty doorway a few seconds after she left. Suddenly the fields rustled, yanking his focus away. Broden's free hand snapped to the blaster rifle laid across his lap while the other crushed the still lit cirgarra he stood up, letting the crumpled wad of paper and Havao tabac fall from his singed palm. Broden stepped down the short stairs to the dusty ground holding his blaster rifle at the ready. All sense of relaxation sapped from his body as his muscles suddenly tensed.

"Who's there?" he demanded to the night. The stalks of cornlett pods moved aside as a figure clad in dark grey armor stepped through. Broden's jaw clenched as he raised his rifle's sights to his eye.

"You, Mandalorian! You have seconds to leave my property," he shouted. The Mandalorian stood perfectly still as he slowly raised his hands. Broden's finger twitched over the trigger of his rifle.

"We mean no harm," the figure said in a sharp calm tone. Still moving slowly, he reached for his helmet and smoothly pulled it from his head. Still watching down the sights of his blaster, Broden saw only a face in the darkness. The Mandalorian took one daring step closer, into the light of the homestead. Suddenly the face was clear and Broden recognized it instantly. It had nearly eight years since he'd seen its sharp features hadn't changed much. Dark stubble budded along his jaw and heavy bags hung under the dark spots around his cold eyes.

"Mereel?" Broden asked in amazement. Of all faces to be concealed by a Mandalorian helmet, Jaster Mereel was the last one Broden Fett had expected. Obviously much had happened in the eight years since he was banished for the murder of District Chief Vern Alkeer. "You've been banished. You realize its my duty to detain you?" he growled.

"My men and I aren't here to cause any trouble. We just need a place to stay for the night," Jaster said. Broden looked him over, noting first the two empty holsters strapped to Jaster's armored thighs. There was no sign of a weapon on the Mandalorian but Broden knew better than to lower his defenses.

"Why should I help you?" he asked harshly. Jaster fixed Broden with a cold, serious stare.

"Because, Fett, you owe me." A chilling shiver ran down Broden's spine as he was suddenly taken back to a dark time within his mind. Rage, uncontrollable and devastating; moments when he felt as if he was someone else entirely. But Jaster's stare, cold and frightening as it was, drew him back, subsiding the memories of range with fear and unfathomable depths of regret.

"Hon, who are you tal-." Iella's voice gave out as she froze on the doorstep. So lost in his mind, Broden hadn't even realized she was there. Iella's large green eyes were wide with shock, glued to Jaster's face. Broden shook his head clear turning his attention away from the Mandalorian.

"Iella, back inside," he barked. She lingered in the doorway before backing into the house and disappearing. Jaster hadn't moved an inch, only shifting his gaze, watching Iella Fett back away, noticing that she still walked with a limp. Broden lowered his rifle and eased back from Jaster.

"One night," he muttered, nodding to the structure off to the side of the house. "In the barn."

"The fields will do. We'll be gone at dawn," Jaster said before turning away.

"I'll send food in the morning," Broden said. Jaster stopped at the edge of the crops then looked back over his shoulder.

"Vor entye," he said before ducking back into the darkness. Broden stood in the light of the homestead watching the fields now still in the night. Like it or not, Broden did owe Jaster, he owed him everything he had. Even after tonight, it still wasn't enough.


	21. Chapter 21

Before leaving the frigate, Cin had juggled the idea of packing a few portable rations in her kit. Literally inches from the barracks door, she threw them down in the last second, a choice she deeply regretted now. Her armor's malfunctioning thermostat system left her under the entire weight of the Beskar in the hot sun of Concord Dawn for hours. Drenched in sweat all day, the night's bitter chill was a cruel topping to an already disastrous day. Her one and only comfort was being huddled in the arms of her husband Dreznor. As bad as her situation though, these were only mere annoyances for the Mandalorian. The four of them had reached the large rolling hills within an hour of deciding to head in their direction. They had found a shallow saddle between the hills suitable for the night. From above, they were still exposed but this was the best they had. Wade Cadera stood watch just around the bend of the hill while Cin, Dreznor and Ar'jae rested in the cold dark, not daring to strike even a sparker. Ar'jae was restless, nearly pacing back and forth in the confinement of the saddle. The Mandalorian in orange and green colored armor plates rubbed the top of his bald head anxiously. Even in the dark, Cin spotted the twitching of his eye.

"Ar'jae, sit your sheb down or I'll break your legs," Dreznor grumbled.

"This is bantha poodoo," the Mandalorian in orange said, completely ignoring Dreznor's threat.

"What now?" Cin said with annoyance.

"We've got no food, no shelter, barely any weapons and not even a clear plan in mind, we're as good as bantha fodder!"

"You know for a Mando, you sure do complain a lot," Dreznor said.

"Well this is our only option," Cin said. "So make the best of it and shut down for a few hours." Ar'jae stopped in his tracks and inched closer to the two sitting on the ground against the hill side. His voice was suddenly very quiet.

"We do have another option. Its Mereel they want," he said in a very serious tone. "Its not too late to go back."

"And join them?" Cin exclaimed. Dreznor lept to his feet, forcing Ar'jae back.

"You dare turn on Mand'alor?" he growled. The menacing silhouette of the Zabrak seemed to dwarf Ar'jae. Dreznor's red skin toned face was contorted with anger, creasing the sharp, jagged, black tattoos matching the design recreated on his armor.

"Its clear who the winning side is," Ar'jae said hotly from under the Zabrak's shadow.

"You treacherous piece of chizk!" Dreznor roared as he briskly drew his Dissuader KD-30 slugthrower from its holster, holding it inches from Ar'jae's forehead.

"Drez, wait!" Cin called out. "They'll hear you! The both of you, quiet down," she hissed. Dreznor didn't back down an inch, still glaring down at Ar'jae with pale yellow eyes. From around the bend of the hill, they heard the faint clanking of armor and dull footfalls. The three turned to face the sound, Ar'jae and Cin both hovering their hands over their own blasters as Dreznor drew a second Dissuader. Wade froze in his tracks with Gax following just behind him.

"Put that slugthrower away," Wade whispered sharply. "What is going on here, you'll attract every Death Watch on this rock!"

"Seems that's what Ar'jae wants," Cin said. Wade looked from Ar'jae's to the face of Cin Tenau.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"Ar'jae wants to go back and join them," Dreznor added with a snarl, still holding his Dissuader at the Mandalorian's head. Wade shoved the blaster away, stepping up into Ar'jae's face. His black Mandalorian 'T' was only an inch from his nose.

"Bad call, Vod. Think about it."

"Really? How's our plan coming along?" Ar'jae refuted snidely. All eyes except Dreznor's turned to Gax, lingering quietly off to the side.

"City's being used as a command post. The ships are gone," the Umbaran reported flatly with a dry, grating voice.

"Feirfek, there goes that idea," Dreznor growled.

"That's it then, we run. Find a settlement somewhere and hunker down."

"And wait to be rescued?" Ar'jae blurted.

"And follow orders!" Wade growled stepping closer.

"Farkle Mereel and his orders! I aint dying for a doomed regime!" The camp went silent as all glowered at him. Ar'jae pivoted on his back foot. Cin wondered whether the bold Mandalorian in orange was backing down or preparing to take a swing at Cadera. "Viszla has Mand'alor on the run. It's clear who is stronger here," he said snidely. "And he's not wrong about most of what he's said."

"What, butchering innocents?" Cin blurted. He shot her a sharp look.

"It's the way of our people. Mereel has forgotten that." Wade shook his head as he turned away. Dreznor's attention was stolen away for a brief moment to the passing Mandalorian in brown. Cin didn't fail to notice the brisk nods both he and Wade Cadera exchanged.

"Shut down for another hour. Cin you have watch, no one leaves."


	22. PART 4: Chapter 22

PART 4

By far, the shrieking squawk of the Bantygump was the boy's least favorite sound in all his young life. It violated his ears through the blissful stupor of sleep, signifying another grueling day on the farm. Jango groaned into his pillow, laying flat on his stomach and burying his face from the inevitable glare of the sun. He knew the minute he opened his eyes, they would melt straight out of his skull, or so he thought. Keeping them shut, he pushed the weight of his body from off his bed, forcing himself to sit up. His eyes were still sealed shut as he sat with slouched shoulders on the edge of his bed. Even through the thin cover of his eyelids he felt the sun's light. Yawning deeply, he stretched his back and slowly cracked open his eyes. All he saw was the blurry haze of light before his eyes adjusted and through his second story window, he looked out over the fields of crops. His eyes then grew wide open. Far in the distance, beyond the fields, Jango saw a sliver of black smoke rising into the bright almost white sky. Rushing to the window, he nearly leaned halfway out for it, staring with his mouth agape, his mind running rampant with possibilities. Still enamored, Jango left the window to change and prepare for the day's work, pulling on tan overalls over his pale green shirt. The eight year old seemed to forget all his grogginess as he bounded down the stairs and made his way straight into the kitchen. The air smelled of smoked, savory meat heavily laden with spices. Arla looked up from the pile of dishes stacked in the sink at her younger brother, with a sly smirk.

"Look who's finally up," she mocked. Jango gave her a face in reply, mimicking her with unintelligible mumbling. In the corner of the kitchen, Iella turned toward her children.

"Jango, there's a plate on the counter," she said in a rush, pointing with spatula in her hand. He stepped up to the island in the middle of the kitchen floor and climbed onto one of the stools opposite the sink where Arla stood scrubbing a pan. On a square white plate was a red tinted mound of scrambled eggs with two triangular slices of brown crisply toasted bread dangling on the edge.

Jango long ago learned to appreciate the love his mother put into the Fett family's breakfasts on a day when it was left to Broden's responsibility. It was the middle of winter and a bowl of cold wheat in cream went down the boy's throat like carbonite sludge. Jango slid from the stool and made his way to a row of cupboards. From one of them, he reached to the third top shelf on the ends of his toes and with his small hands grasped a pitcher that was cold to the touch. Making his way back to the stool he poured the cool, green tinted, silky substance of groat milk into a cup.

"Where's Dad?" he inquired as he set down the pitcher.

"Working. Now hurry and eat, he wants you working on that harvester right now," Iella said from over her shoulder as she chopped up vegetables. Jango rolled his eyes and groaned again before shoveling the eggs into his mouth.

"We should just get a new one," he said as he chewed.

"Ours works fine if you'd quit breaking it," Arla said.

"I didn't break it!" Jango protested.

"Yes you did," she muttered as looked up at him deviously through her bangs.

"Arla, stop accusing your brother, Jango, EAT," their mother said stiffly. Arla looked back down at her chore just as Jango stuck out his tongue. Quickly she looked back up and Jango hid his insulting appendage in the glass of milk. With his eyes covered by the raised glass, Alra found her next chance to strike. Dipping her hand thin hand into the soapy dishwater, she flicked her fingers, at her brother, showering him with miniscule beads of water. Jango nearly slammed his glass down on the counter, hopping off his seat in outburst.

"Hey!"

"That's it, breakfast is over," Iella declared with a tone not of anger but solid authority. "Jango, out."

"Alright, alright," the boy muttered as he slid off the stool and reluctantly shuffled to the doorway. Turning back around, he shot a scowl at his fourteen year old sister whom in turn, stuck out her own tongue at him, she had won this round.

As her eight year old brother continued down the hall, Arla grinned to herself. It were these moments, when she truly felt happy. She felt almost just as innocently child-like as Jango. Whether Jango knew it or not their bickering was what kept her from retreating back within herself. Iella of course knew it, mother's know all. It saddened her, it was a side of her children that their father had never witnessed, and she feared he never would.

Jango stepped out into the morning's warm embrace. He liked to enjoy this moment as much as possible since Concord Dawn's summer sun quickly would turn hostile. Continuing down the porch to the hard ground, he approached the edge of field. Jango planted one foot closer, looking down at his footing as he prepared to clamber through the stalks of the crop field. There around where his small foot had stepped was a larger print dug into the earth. Jango paused, not recognizing the print. He was puzzled and in his young mind, raffled his thoughts for an explanation. The print was made by solid footwear with terrain in mind, a boot. Not like the work shoes he and his father wore out on the farm but like the rugged field boots his Broden donned as a Protector. Searching the ground, he found more of them, leading away from the homestead deeper into the fields. All thoughts of the Harvester and his father left his mind as he darted back to the porch and stepped back inside the house. On the wall adjacent to the open door, Jango picked his hunting rifle from its place on a bracket with his father's own longer blaster hanging above it. Rifle in hand, Jango raced back outside and with determination set on his young face, he set out into the fields. More of the same strange prints lead deeper into the field. Jango followed them closely, planting the stock of his rifle into the ground as he squat down to inspect the print closer. He hovered his hand over the dirt, staring in wonder, wanting nothing more than to know, who owned these prints. A dark shadow suddenly engulfed all light from the sky. Alarmed, Jango spun round to face the broad, hulking figure. With disapproval on his hard, sculpted face, Broden looked down on his son.

"Jango," he said.

"Dad," the boy started but was immediately cut off.

"You should be fixing the Harvester, not playing around out here," Broden said. "Get back to work." In his father's arms, he spotted a wicker basket with its contents wrapped in cloth to shield away the dust. Jango knew better than to try his patience but his sense lost out to his curiosity once more.

"What's in the basket?" he inquired with a frown.

"Food," Broden answered flatly. "There's a beggar in the fields." A whole new door of possibilities and questions opened in the boy's mind.

"A beggar? Who is it?" he pressed on. Broden eyed his son sternly.

"The Harvester, Jango," he instructed as he turned away. "Don't make me tell you again." Jango sighed with disappointment before continuing through the fields, deviating from the path of the trailing boot prints, setting them aside from his mind.

Broden glanced over his shoulder once more just to see his eight year old son vanish inside the crop field. Keeping Jango focused on his work was crucial at the moment. With his son preoccupied, there was little chance of him crossing paths of the Mandalorians hidden in the heart of the fields. Broden pressed on, finally pushing the stalks aside to enter a clearing. Their guest had mentioned more accompanying him so Broden wasn't shocked to see Jaster Mereel lingering along with three other armor clad men. The four hardened warriors rested with their helmets and blasters at their sides, revealing the caution molded on their faces. Two of them were fairly young while the other was far older than even Mereel. Jaster turned as Broden pressed on. Even with his large build and iron like will, the farmer felt fairly vulnerable in his tunic and overalls around the armor clad warriors.

"Fett," Jaster greeted.

"Iella sent some food," Broden mumbled. Jaster's eye contact was devastating to the man, nearly reducing him to child-like shyness. Jaster reached out for the basket.

"Thank you," he said. Turning away, he handed the basket to Lynn who dug in first for its contents. Montross joined him as Hos held back, still inspecting his snub rifle. Broden nodded as he peeked over Jaster's shoulders. An edgy feeling still burrowed in the pit of his stomach as he watched the Mandalorians. As a child when his farm belonged to his father, Broden was told the stories of the pirates whom terrorized the space called Mandalorians, and since then, they hadn't done anything to discourage these preconceptions as far as he was aware. But these men were no pirates, neither would they be his first choice as dinner guests. From behind, Broden heard a timid voice call out.

"Um, Dad?" Broden turned to find his daughter, Arla approaching with a large jug hefted in her spindly arms. Dread filled his entire being that Arla and Jaster Mereel were now within one another's presence.

"Arla what are you doing here?" Broden snapped. Arla inched closer before freezing completely. Her wide eyes glanced about at the faces of the men now all watching her.

"Mom said you forgot water," she mumbled.

"Get back to the house, now," Broden barked. Still her feet stayed planted as her gaze suddenly rested on Jaster. He watched her closely with a blank, watchful face yet in his eyes there was familiarity. She couldn't quite know for sure but she knew him, and he knew her. The feeling was odd, distant and above all, safe. "Now," Broden barked. Arla shuttered as if jolted out of a trance before setting the jug down and darting from sight. Broden turned back to Jaster, trying to stand firm while inside he awaited bashfully for the man to speak. For a while he said nothing.

"She's grown," he observed with a somber expression and tone. "Any more problems?" Broden swallowed the guilt that crept up his throat, his strong timbre withered to a strained whisper.

"I haven't laid a hand on her." Jaster fixed him with a sharp, stern stare.

"And your wife?" Broden rallied his confidence with every passing moment. As painful as it was to have his guilt tested, it was also unexplainably relieving.

"I'm not that man anymore, Mereel," he said in his normal tone. Stilling eyeing him, Jaster alleviated his scrutinizing presence.

"Good." Broden felt lighter than ever as an immense weight lifted from his shoulders.

"Stay as long as you need," Broden said before turning back away. He ducked back into the crops before Jaster could say anymore. He was a new man now, more so than before.


	23. Chapter 23

Plates of orange were set over a grey flightsuit with green trim along the collar guard. The helmet was heavily damaged, something that could only be done by placing an explosive inside the helmet. No doubt, it was a measure to destroy any image or audio files logged in the armor's computer. It didn't take long for Ludo Viszla to determine that the dead Mandalorian sprawled on the grass was not one of his own. There was no blast point on him, no cuts or wounds of any kind save for the slight bruising that no doubt came from prolonged wear of Beskar plates so close to the skin with only the dense material of the flight suit as a buffer. Finding the body for the Death Watch operator wasn't hard nor all that easy. It'd have been found eventually with patrolling Death Watch speeders above. The foot hills were just far enough from the abandoned city for any group of Jaster Mereel's survivors to consider suitable shelter. Crouching beside the body, he quickly glanced about the small saddle between two steep hill faces. The area was cramped and there were no obvious signs of camp. Ludo doubted they'd be stupid enough to have lit a fire. But just as much as the land around them had offered help, it had also betrayed them. The shin-high grass had been matted down where their heavy boots had left their prints and where the weight of their laid out bodies had crushed it to the ground. From behind his helmet, Ludo sneered. Yet the body still puzzled him. What killed the man sprawled before him. Looking closer to his colorless, lifeless face, he found his answer. His neck was severely bruised and even mangled under the skin. This Mandalorian was strangled, a swift kill from a murderer of obviously great and dangerous size and strength. Ludo only let the one question possible linger in his mind for short-cut moment. He couldn't care less why he was killed or that these cowards were killing each other off. Ludo cued his com.

"Ludo here, got a body," he reported. His gaze lingered from the dead Mandalorian to the direction of stamped grass leading away along the foot hills. "And a trail. Keep on standby." Cutting the comlink, he stood up from the body. The operator counted the tracks out loud as he looked out over their direction. "Four to go," he muttered with a sneer.


	24. Chapter 24

Through the grinding of gears an electronic whine held a constant note. The ignition's choppy metallic punches were a tease, inching closer and closer to life but refusing to turn completely over. With his patience far past exhaustion, Jango let off the ignition throttle and slammed his head back against the mid back of the large, black leather chair, cooking through the open canopy by the day's roasting sun.

"Blast!" he grumbled in frustration. Taking no time to calm down, he threw himself from the driving module of the Fett family's beaten, blue Harvester. Jango landed from firmly on the hard ground from the two foot drop. The Harvester sat on four large treads at each corner in the middle of a clearing in the crop fields where it had broken down on Broden days before. Almost everything that his father knew about the vehicle's maintenance, he knew just as well. Jango made his way to the maintenance hatch along the side of the craft with his hydrospanner drawn from the pocket of his grease and dirt stained overalls. The young boy dropped to his knees and stuck his head inside the exposed machinery. He had been working on the Harvester ever since he was small enough to climb completely inside the compartment. At times it seemed pushed on him by his father but Jango did actually enjoy engineering work. It was a puzzle to be solved and there was a thrill bringing machinery to life from nothing but a bucket of bolts and fasteners. Even through the length and density of his thick, black hair, Jango felt the beating of the sun on his back and neck. He grasped the side of the Harvester and rose to his feet, wiping his forehead with a grimey hand. This was definitely a time where he enjoyed his work and with little indication of just exactly what to do with the Harvester, there was no sign of it ending anytime soon. Jango lowered his hand, peering into the tinted reflection of the craft's window. He saw his own face, now struck dumb with utter shock. Over his shoulders, two older, gruffer and harder faces than he'd ever before seen glared down at him in the reflection.

"Hey, Kid," Tor said. Spinning on his heel, Jango faced the two men, looking up at them, dazed with shock. Tor Viszla was slightly taller than the second man but was far broader with a menacing presence, making Pert Jerok seem smaller than he actually was. Both men had long, black hair that set on the shoulders of their black armor. From the collar of his armor, a tattered ragged red cape sat still in the dead air. Jango wasn't sure which of the two be more afraid of. Danger surrounded them both like a dark aura but it was Jerok that leveled a DMR blaster at him. "Let me see your hands," Tor demanded. Faster than he could think to do so, Jango's hands shot above his head.

"What do you want," he stammered, fighting to stay in control.

"We're looking for some bad men," Tor explained flatly. "See any strangers around?"

"Other than you?" Jango wittily replied. A smirk spread on Pert's ugly face.

"Smart kid," he mused. "Let's just shoot him and move on." Jango's eyes grew wider than before as he suddenly became very aware that he was pinned feeling the slight burn on his back, pressed firmly against the sun-kissed side of the Harvester. The muzzle of the blaster seemed only inches from his face but even closer was Viszla's gloved finger, hovering centimeters from the boy's nose as he stooped in close. The man smelled of sweat soaked leather and his breath was raw.

"I will let him kill you," he said darkly. Jango swallowed nervously. Now it wasn't just the sun that made him sweat. From behind the two men, the crops parted and more figures clad in similar Mandalorian armor stepped into the clearing. Their helmeted faces scanned the fields around them, keeping their own blasters at the ready. Even Jango could tell right away that these were trained, practiced killers, and his life probably meant less to them than the land trodden under their boots.

"My- my Dad gave a beggar some food today. I think the beggar wore boots, soldier boots." Jango had little control over the words that tumbled from his mouth. His large, brown eyes wide with fright, flicking back and forth from Tor's ugly expression to Pert's blaster. Standing back upright, Tor thought out loud with a look of determination on his face.

"Jaster," he hissed in a low growl. Pert moved in, grasping Jango firmly by the shoulder with one hand. He looked over his own armored shoulder back at his ruthless leader, awaiting his orders.

"What now?" Tor's squinted gaze bore down on Jango, followed by a chilling smirk.

"We'll make sure the boy gets home," he said. Tor turned away and started back through the crop field. "Load him into the speeder." Jango tried to jump away from grabbing hands of a Death Watch soldier but was neither quick nor strong enough to evade his hands. Jango was lifted off his feet and thrown over the soldier's armored shoulder. The boy thrashed and squirmed as he was carried away from the Harvester toward the stalks of the crop field. With Jango shouting and struggling, the soldier pushed through to another clearing where three wide, speeders parked in wait. Jango was dropped to the deck of the speeder while the troops all piled into the seats along the sides. Tor leapt into the passenger seat, glancing back over his shoulder at the boy. The man's grim face flooded the boy with fear. The speeders hummed to life before zipping through the clearing down a hard, narrow, dusty road. The homestead was within sight for the Death Watch. Tor's eyes gazed about the fields for any sign of his prey. It didn't matter, Jaster Mereel was here, and he would find him no matter the cost. Tor's speeder pulled up to the homestead first with the other two pulling off on each flank. Alerted to the hum and whine of the speeder's repulsorlifts, Broden stepped out from the barn house structure to the right of their home. The Death Watch's Mandalorian armor registered within his mind in a flash. Without thought, he drew a blaster pistol from the back of his overalls and leveled it at the first Death Watch soldier to leap from one of the speeders.

"Mandalorian, get off my land!" he demanded gruffly. From the speeders, more blaster rifles were leveled at him, but Broden wouldn't back down. Tor leapt from the speeder onto the hard ground of the Fett family's farm. With a large hand, he grabbed Jango by the back of his overalls and held him for Broden to see. Broden's eyes widened in shock as he looked into his son's fearfully, tear ridden face.

"Drop it, or your boy dies!" Tor growled with a sneer. Broden's grip on his blaster pistol slackened as he felt the desperation close in around him. He didn't dare make a move with his children at risk.

"No… Jango…" he whispered. Broden's hands were tied and he despised it. He threw the pistol down on the ground, glaring at Tor Viszla with burning hate. More Death Watch leapt from the hovering speeders, searching the land around them through the sights of their blaster rifles.

"Search the barn," Tor ordered as he dropped Jango to the ground. Another Death Watch grabbed him and held him trapped with his arm around his neck. Two of the Mandalorians made their ways to the barn house while Pert approached Broden. Pert sneered as he slammed Broden in the stomach with the stock of his DMR. With a grunt, Broden dropped to the ground on his knees. Still coughing, Pert grasped his arms, and locked them behind him as he guided Broden to where Tor stood like a menacing statue with his determined, ugly gaze fixed on the barn. Finally the two Death Watch soldiers reappeared.

"No one here," she reported while the other still glanced about inside. Tor's glowering gaze rested on Broden, still held down on his knees. "A man named Jaster Mereel is here. Hand him over to me, and my men and I will leave you and your property alone." Glaring up at Tor with his head low, Broden grit his teeth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he growled. Tor sneered before lashing out, swinging down at Broden with a clenched fist. Broden grunted, a new bruise on his cheek where he was struck.

"Dad!" Jango shouted. Never in his life did he think his father would ever stand to get hit. To Jango, he was invincible but with each hit the man took, that was shattered for the young boy. Tor stood up, readjusting his armor's gauntlet as he opened and closed his gloved fist, now speckled with Broden's blood.

"This will be extremely painful for you if you don't tell me what I want to know," he said. With his nose broken and gushing blood, Broden still made eye contact with the barbaric Mandalorian.

"I don't know anything," he strained to say. Broden fought to appear strong and undaunted, he had to for Jango. The young boy struggled in the grip of the Death Watch, eyes streaming with tears.

"You're lying!" Tor roared as he sent another punch to Broden's battered face. "I know you know who he is. He was a lawman here years ago. Now this is the last time I ask nicely." Tor punched him again, sending a spray of blood from the farmer's defiant mouth. Pert could feel Broden's strength fading with each hit as he held him in place. "Where is Jaster Mereel?" Tor demanded impatiently. Broden lifted his head and spat more blood filling in his mouth. His face was swollen and was barely able to keep one of his eyes open. He felt the blood trickle down his chin and around his nose. There was no use in completely lying any more, but no matter how much punishment he was dealt, he would not give in.

"I haven't seen him since he was exiled and I took over his post," he lied. "I'm the Journeyman Protector here. I'm the law!" he growled defiantly. Tor growled impatiently as he drew his blaster pistol from one his holsters. "No, this is the law," he said, brandishing his blaster. He waved the muzzle at the Death Watch soldier holding Jango.

"No, don't!" Broden protested with a hoarse voice. Grasping the boy by his thick locks of black hair, he held his head against his father's. Tor held the blaster's cold muzzle to Jango's temple. "Answer me, or you'll be wearing your kid's brains." Broden bared his blood stained teeth struggling for breath in his fit of rage. Suddenly a bright red bolt streaked inches over Jango's head. With a wail, the Death Watch soldier holding Jango dropped to the ground in a burst of dust with a trail of smoke rising from a hole dead center of the Mandalorian 'T' on his helmet. Gritting his teeth, Tor spun around to where the blaster bolt was fired. From the shadows of the homestead's porch, Iella stepped forward with Broden's smoking blaster rifle leveled in her hands.

"You drop my child!" she threatened with fury, still looking down the sights of the blaster. Cowering fearfully in the shadows behind her mother, Arla watched silently. To Jango, everything was happening far too fast. He suddenly realized he was free from anyone's grasp. Broden looked up at his son, his beaten, bloody, stern face red as he strained to shout.

"Jango, run!" The impulse was instant and before any of the Death Watch could react, he was gone, disappeared into the crop field.

"After him!" Tor roared to two of his men. They ran after Jango, disappearing into the stalks of the crops. For the moment, Pert was distracted and his grip slackened. Broden felt his wrists slide in Pert's grasp and made his move. He broke the Mandalorian's grip, freeing one hand while throwing him to the ground with the other. As one Death Watch soldier charged in to detain Broden, Iella aimed carefully, taking her time as she picked him off with another shot. The soldier went down and the soldier at his side aimed her blaster and opened fire. Without a sound, Iella crumpled to the ground with a blaster wound smoking from her chest. Stricken with fear, Arla struggled to breath. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't look away from the smoldering black hole in her mother's chest. For a few last moments, her chest still heaved with labored breaths as she stared lifelessly into the sky. Letting out a brutish growl, Broden shakily climbed to his feet and charged at Tor. The Mandalorian stood perfectly still, raising his blaster pistol and firing off a single shot. Grasping his chest where the bolt had struck him, Broden fell flat on his back. He shook in agony not from his pain but with anger by the screams of his daughter. His sight was blurring with each passing moment as he felt the burning corrosion of the blaster bolt's impact on his chest.

Jango could barely see through the haze of tears flooding his vision as he pressed on through the fields. It didn't matter what direction he went as long as the homestead was behind him. From behind, he heard the ring of blaster fire. He glanced over his shoulder as more tears welled up in his eyes, now clenched tight in distress. Behind, he spotted the two armored men in pursuit on his trail. The two were getting closer and closer, bursting through the crops. As Jango ran, his legs strained to maintain his speed but was failing. Suddenly he was stopped completely. A strong, firm hand grasped his wrist. Jango looked up in fear into the cold callous helmet of another Mandalorian. His armor was gray with red shoulder plating matching the red border of the black Mandalorian 'T' eyeplate. Jango attempted to wrench himself free of the man's grip and yelped in panic, dreading the very thought of having been captured once again. The Mandalorian swung Jango behind him as he snapped a blaster pistol from the holster on his thigh and fired all within a smooth, fluid motion. The Death Watch soldier dropped to the ground with a blaster wound smoldering from his shoulder. From behind the Mandalorian, Jango watched as the second soldier was shot down by multiple shots fired from both his protector and one of the Mandalorian's at his side.

Standing over Broden, he aimed his blaster pistol and fired again. With a new blast point smoking from his forehead, Broden's shaking arms fell flat and he was still. Tor turned to the sound of shrieks of fear. Arla struggled and fought to pull away from Pert's grasp lost her footing on the hard dusty ground.

"Blaster fire," Pert observed. "Jaster's out there. Should we go in?"

"No," Tor answered flatly. His steely eyes gazed about the crops surrounding them. "We'll set fire to the fields. Burn them all," he ordered. Around them the remaining five Death Watch soldiers shouldered their blasters and raised their fists to the stalks of crops. Jets of flame shot from their wrists, setting the fields ablaze. Like a wave of destruction, the stalks caught fire and spread out over the span of the field. To Tor, it was a shame that he personally couldn't be the one to see the light leave Jaster Mereel's eyes, that it wasn't his hand closing around the Mandalorian's throat, snuffing the life out of him. Tor turned back towards the speeder.

"And the girl?" Pert inquired with a look of twisted greed as he lifted Arla back onto her feet. Tor glanced over his shoulder at Arla's horror stricken face. She knew full well that her fate was in his hands, the very man she just witnessed killing her father. No emotion was on his hard, rugged face as he sneered at her, looking deep into her tear filled eyes. His only thoughts were of the death of his sworn enemy and had no mind for the spoils of war, especially one as petite and bony as the teenage girl was.

"We don't leave witnesses. Take care of her, then we go celebrate the death of Jaster Mereel." Pert looked down on Arla with a sneer before hitting the back of her head with the stock of his DMR. She collapsed, falling out of consciousness before hitting the hard ground.


	25. Chapter 25

The heat of the approaching flames closed in around them with every passing second. The smoke rose like a black cloud from the shriveling stalks of the crop field. Looking back towards the homestead, Jaster watched as the wave of flame rolled straight towards them.

"Field's on fire, let's move," he ordered. One by one, Lynn, Montross and Hos pressed through the stalks, deeper into the field. Jaster couldn't help but linger behind, looking over the homestead of the Fetts, now set fire with flames peeking from the open doorway and windows. He cringed within his armor, regretful that the Fett's had to suffer for he and his men. Jaster had been right from the very start, Viszla was a madman. The barbarian was relentless and cruel, he would stop at nothing to achieve his objectives, and people were going to get caught in the crossfire. Mandalorians and civilians likewise would all die before this would end. Jaster was about to turn away but noticed the young boy still standing at the edge of the clearing. Jango was shaking as he looked towards the rising smoke of his burning home. He whimpered quietly to himself as tears ran down his eyes. He was alone with only himself to hold for comfort. Jaster watched Jango, the symbol of what this war would cost for everyone caught in the middle of it. It was a shame but it was reality, the reality of war. "Your family is dead, Boy," he said. "Come with us, or die here too." The boy didn't move. He was frozen in the immense heat, stuck in the past as it seemed as he looked back on the ruins of everything he knew. The flames were inching closer and the smoke closing in on the air around them, yet the boy wouldn't move. Shaking his head, Jaster turned away, ducking into the field. He couldn't save those not willing to save themselves.

Jklp-Jaster quickly caught up with the others but faster still were the growing flames. Hos tried to push forward as much as possible but was cutoff in nearly every direction he tried by an impenetrable wall of flame.

"It's burning too fast," he growled as he desparately shoveed through the stalks. "We'll never get clear in time!" The four found themselves condensed closely back to back, scanning the haze of flame for an opening. Suddenly, Jaster felt a tug on is arm as someone pulled him away.

"This way," Jango shouted. The boy led Jaster away and the others followed with Hos now picking up the rear. Slowly, Jango led them down a direction the Mandalorians had before disregarded. As far as Lynn could tell. They were being led deeper into the center of the fields. The slower they went, the faster his patience would burn away with the field around them. Trudging forward, Jango tried to shield the flare of heat from his face with his arm.

"Can't see anything," Jaster grunted with equally decaying patience.

"We're almost there," Jango exclaimed. Finally, the boy shoved through the crops to another narrow clearing. Jaster stepped away from the edge of the clearing as he looked up and down the span of a giant metal piping system half submerged in the hard earth.

"An irrigation tube," he observed. Right away, he understood the boy's thinking and cursed himself for not thinking of it himself from his past experience of this zone. Jango ran to the access hatch sealed shut by a valve. With his small, sweaty hands, he struggled to grasp and turn the large, stubborn valve. Montross approached the hatch, nudging Jango aside as he grasped the valve himself. His bare upper arms bulged visibly as he fought against the valve. It gave inch by staggered inch before screeching free and turning with minimal resistence. Lynn scanned the area around them, searching for any possible plan B. But the fire was effective, cutting off any and every topside route they could think of.

"We're surrounded," he called to the others. With a metallic creek, Montross lifted the valve on its hinge and looked down into the dark access hatch. A shallow stream of water leisurely ran through the pipe.

"We can crawl under the fire," Jango said as he climbed onto the pipe and looked into the hatch.

"Or get boiled alive," Montross muttered. Hos and Lynn turned back to Jaster.

"Everyone inside," he barked. Jango jumped in first followed by Jaster and Montross seconds later. One by one they plopped into the stream and crawled on their hands and knees through the water. The glow, though gentle created a cavernous echo down the hollow half of the tube, made worse by the rushed sloshing of the Mandalorians trudging forward. On all fours, the water thrashed up to Jango's neck. The tunnel was pitch black but they didn't have to see anything to know where they were headed in the narrow path of the pipe. After a while of pressing forward, Jango's hand slipped from under him. With a wail, he dropped and slid down the pipe, diving steeply below ground. Behind him, each of the Mandalorians toppled and slid down the slick metal pipe. The steep drop abruptly and painfully came to an end with each of the five bowling each other over now submerged completely by the gathered reserve of water. Amidst the grunts and groans, Jango crawled out from underneath the four armored men. Down the length of the pipe at the far end, he spotted six, short, skinny bars of light just above the water's surface. Jaster too noticed the light, relieved that the tunnel had finally come to a stop.

"This way," he said over the com in his helmet. He motioned as he crawled out in front of the young boy. Taking the lead, he pressed on until the lights of the vent shone on the dark grey dome of his helmet. Shifting around onto his back, Jaster brought back his legs and kicked out hard against the vent cover. One single hit sent the cover flying free of the exposed metal tube. The water rushed free charging over the rocks of a ravine, carrying the Mandalorians with it. Jaster braced himself at the mouth of the pipe then climbed out onto the rocks below. Standing at the opening, he helped Jango down from the tube. The boy was sopping wet with his shaggy locks of black hair plastered over his face.

"You alright?" Jaster asked.

"Fine," Jango coughed. Next out was Hos followed by Montross and Lynn. As the Mandalorians removed their helmets and rested on the rocks, Jango climbed up the ravine, drawn to the billowing back smoke. Looking out over the ledge, he watched as his whole world was eaten away by the destructive fire. The fields were nearly leveled to the ground and his home still burned from afar. The man was right, they were dead, his parents and sister, everything he had ever known. He didn't know of any other family either on or off planet. His tears blended with the sweat and water on his face as his deep clenching feeling of despair gave way to a burning and venomous disdain. As confused as he was as to why this had to happen to him, the confusion came hand in hand with frustration. It boiled inside him and as if suddenly like instinct, he wanted nothing more than to get back at the ones that hurt him.

Lynn ran his hand through his mess of blonde hair as he breathed deeply. Montross leaned against the wall of the ravine, tipping his silver and blue helmet to pour out a small stream of water. Hos sat on a boulder resting his own silver and yellow helmet on his knees. His aged, scarred face never looked so fatigued to Lynn, the youngest of the four warriors. Standing beside the open pipe, Jaster looked over his men, still donning his helmet. His systems were fine and his airtight seal had held up against the water. Gazing over each of them, he noticed a strap worn on Lynn's shoulders.

"Lynn, rifle," he said with an awaiting hand. Obediently, the young Mandalorian unslung his DMR from his shoulder and handed it to Jaster. Jaster gave it a quick, field inspection. It was scuffed and plastered with dirt and mud just like the rest of them, but its charging handle was still smooth. The sights were clean and above all, it still had a full cell of power. It would still serve as a worthy asset. "Check your weapons and catch your breath. We're moving out as soon as it gets dark." Taking stock of left over equipment, not much was left, narrowing their options even further. Jaster was forced to abandon his own DMR the day prior along with Hos and his heavy repeater. All they had in their arsenal were their side arms, Montross' snub rifle and Lynn's DMR. Still inspecting his helmet, Hos glanced down at their dwindling supplies.

"Now we just have to find Viszla. He'll need to resupply," he stated.

"I can take you to the closest town. They sell food and power cells. He'll be there." The haggard gazes of the Mandalorians carried up the wall of the ravine to where the young boy stood poised with his focus still on the rising smoke in the distance. Jaster sensed something in him. He was still the young eight year old but his voice had seemed to sharpen and darken. There was a weight of determination behind his words. Jaster drew his personal Westar-34 from his hip holster and displayed it to Jango. Still the boy looked away to his home.

"You know how to use a blaster, Boy?" he asked.

"Yes. My dad," Jango answered. "He taught me to shoot." Images flashed by his eyes of he and his father going far out into the fields. Broden would stand feet behind his son with his arms crossed, scrutinizing the boy's stance, grip and breathing. For Jaster, other images scrolled through his mind. He had only known Broden for what he was but things had definitely changed. There had been an air of honor among the man, something Jaster had perceived under Broden's hospitality.

"Then he was a good man," Jaster muttered to himself. He turned to the others. Hos and Lynn both watched him while Montross glanced up the ravine wall at Jango. "The boy comes with us." Jango's head perked up slightly as if the words reached him differently than before. He turned away and saw Jaster holding the blaster pistol with the handle spun outward. Jango seemed drawn to the dull shine of the Dallorian alloy in the sun. He slid back down the ravine wall and once at the bottom, reached out and grasped the blaster's handle. The young boy looked into the black Mandalorian 'T' where the man's grey eyes were. Jaster released the blaster then turned away.

"Lynn, take your DMR. You have first watch." The young Mandalorian nodded before donning his helmet over his blonde hair and slinging his rifle on his shoulder. Hos approached Jaster as they moved away from the others.

"Funny," Hos grunted.

"What is?" Jaster replied shortly.

"The boy. He's about the age to start Mando training, but he aint like us."

"He says he can help lead us to Viszla." Hos watched Jaster slyly.

"Never thought you the adopting type," he mused.

"I'm not, Hos. Once Viszla's dead, we're leaving the kid at the first place that will take him."


End file.
